


the fruit of all my grief

by devils_trap



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Aggressive + Oblivious Flirting, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Cult, Anal Sex, Emotional Constipation, Home Repair/Work, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Pining, Police, Rough Sex, basically no cult no war just hope county shenanigans, ever just get so bogged down with Dark y'do soft aus all the time?, or well soft as these two get while together lol, pratt's having a no good v bad month
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 78,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: “Really, Jacob? Really.” He makes no attempt at hiding how incredulous and pissed off he is. It'd be a shitty thing to do to a civilian, but to a cop? What Jacob just did was God damn stupid, and with the way Pratt's life's been going, he's sorely tempted to arrest Jacob for reckless driving.“Afternoon, Officer,” Jacob says with a slow, shit-eating grin. His teeth are bright and white, huge in his mouth behind plush pink lips. He's handsome in a fucked up way, with strong masculine features and full, bright red hair. His face scarred and weathered to high heaven, from tragedy during his military service, Pratt assumes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazyamoeba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyamoeba/gifts), [Different_approach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Different_approach/gifts).



The cellophane wrapping around the pack of cigarettes in his grasp crinkles damningly as he shakily tears it off. He doesn't smoke, not anymore at least, but his nerves are shot and this week's been shit. Half of the precinct is out with a stomach bug, and while he and Hudson could probably hunker down and attack it together, Joey God damn Hudson is sixteen hours away sunning herself and day drinking. Definitely not worrying about Cloroxing the phones and door handles or popping Vitamin C pills whenever someone so much as _looks_ at her wrong, not like fucking Pratt.

So he'd bought a pack on his way home from his second double of the week. Hudson's not there to tell him off and threaten to call his mother, and he needs _something_ to anchor him, even if it is cancerous sticks of dried plant and chemicals. He remembers nicotine calming him during undergrad—body occupied by the repeated hand-to-mouth motions, the minty smoke clouding his lungs as well as his thoughts—and, anyway, he doesn't _need_ to explain his actions or anything like that. He's a grown ass man.

The cashier at the Stop-N-Go on the corner near the precinct had eyed him skeptically as she rung up his purchase of Marlboro Menthol shorts, a lighter, and a six pack of Coors, eyes flitting from his rain-dappled Deputy button-up and the pseudo contraband on the counter. She'd popped her gun as his items _snicked_ across her scanner, one razor sharp eyebrow cocked, faded cinnamon wafting from her mouth. The captive bead perched between the ends of the hoop in her eyebrow flashed dully in the harsh florescent light as she turned her head to check her register's screen.

“Those things'll kill you, y'know. Thought cops were supposed to be smart,” she'd told him as she slid his items forward, words dripping with all of the life wisdom she'd accumulated in her eighteen or so years.

The aluminum beer cans sweated in his arms, pressing wetly against his chest as he'd attempted to both cradle them and shove his cigarettes and receipt into his jacket pocket.

“Here's to hoping,” he'd mumbled. He'd been too exhausted to think of a wittier response, so he'd shuffled out of the store and back into the fucking rain, crashing down to the parking lot pavement so forcefully it drowns out the _ding! s_ ounding from the convenience store's door sensor, as well as one last _pop!_ of bubblegum from the cashier.

Too drained to multitask, Pratt hadn't even packed his cigarettes and lit up in the car—partially because of exhaustion, but also because he's got cloth seats and his mother has a nose like a God damn bloodhound, and if she caught wind that he'd started smoking again she'd kick his ass. He's a grown ass man, yeah, but he's got a healthy fear of his mother—and it's not a tremendously long trip home from the convenience store, anyway.

He pointedly ignores the fact that the thought of returning home has his gut clenching anxiously. Freeing himself of the Sheriff's department for the night only to return to the shitshow at his own house.

It's...it's a lot. It's been a rough few weeks.

He's running on fumes, shitty precinct coffee and no sleep by this point. He doesn't fault Hudson and her girlfriend spiriting away to San Francisco, especially during what's turning out to be fucking _monsoon and flu season_ here in Montana—hell he'd even given her his mother's new address outside San Rafael in case she was in the area, and his not-so-subtle plea for her to _please_ bring leftovers back for him—but _fuck_ if he doesn't feel her absence. No one takes his shit and gives it back to him like she does, no one tugs his hair and flicks him off or leaves cookies and cream Hershey kisses on his desk, and with her gone he's scrabbling to find his equilibrium under all of the stressors in his life weighing him down at once, those at home and those at work.

There's not a whole lot of crime in Hope County or its surrounding area, but it's fucking _huge_ and people call dispatch for next to nothing. Last week, Pratt had been sent out on a call to get a fucking cat out of a tree—a fucking cat! Like his life was some 50's TV show—and the little asshole hadn't even had the decency to wait for him to show up before shimmying back down to its owner. When they're fully staffed, it's not so terrible, hell it's oftentimes straight up amusing, but they're incredibly short-staffed right now.

Frankly, Pratt doesn't have it in him to get sent out for a fucking cat in distress. He'd probably end up the one arrested, screaming bloody murder after he'd attempted to strangle the owner.

Without Hudson, without _half the God damn precinct_ , it's just Pratt, Whitehorse, Nancy, and a still wet behind the ears Probie, and while he's a fast learner, Pratt'll give him at least _that_ , a petty part of him wishes Hudson would've just fucking _waited._ For what, even Pratt's not really certain, but Joey's always had some near preternatural extra sense about her. She should've _known_ this month would be shit for him and planned accordingly.

She's in fucking Gay Mecca probably having great sex with her admittedly hot girlfriend and what's Staci Pratt doing? Sitting on his porch swing, stocking feet tucked under his crossed legs as he idly rocks to and fro, lighting a cigarette while the fucking sky pisses all over everything.

The smoke in his mouth tastes different than it had in college, when he smoked regularly. It's almost stale, and it burns funny in his throat as it fills his lungs. He stares at the smoldering orange tip as he contemplates the off taste in his mouth, minty and smokey and strange, watches as the embers flare brighter, redder as he exhales against the cherry.

Figures something would go wrong with even the cigarettes, story of his fucking life.

It hadn't started off a bad year—pay raise at work, finished paying off his car, and he'd saved up enough money to move out of his crappy apartment, with its shit water pressure and loud neighbors and creepy landlord. It hadn't even taken him long to find a house that he, Hudson, and his mother all liked—a quaint little craftsman twenty minutes from the precinct, yellow-green exterior walls and a slate gray roof. Three bedroom, three and a half baths across three floors, with a finished basement and an attached garage.

He'd had his mother on a video call as the realtor had shown him and Hudson around. They'd all fallen in love and fallen _hard_ , his mother particularly smitten with the handsome landscaping of the front yard, and the view of it from the porch swing.

But love is fucking blind, full of road bumps and unforseen hardship and, apparently, waterlogged, flooded, previously handsome landscaping. His front yard is nearly a _lake_.

First the garage door had given up the ghost. That had been a relatively easy fix, even with Pratt's initial near heart attack. A few Youtube videos and a _lot_ of fingercrossing, _please work please work_ , had fixed that right up.

Mostly right up. Pratt doesn't think about the ominous creaking sound it emits when he opens the door, about how it shudders and groans like a living creatures as the door's slats shimmy up their track. He simply parks and rushes into his home, lest the door break free of its rickety bonds and crush him to death.

Then it was his car, the one he'd just finished paying off. God damn front axle out of alignment set him back almost $500, and only that little because the mechanic who owned the autobody shop he'd gone to owed him for not giving him a DUI a few months prior when he definitely deserved one.

After that, it was little things—his main television dying, the pilot light repeatedly going out, a fucking _moose_ trampling his backyard to shit, busting his fence.

But it's the flooding in his basement that takes the cake.

Pratt rocks in his porch swing and takes another hit off his cigarette. The rain's coming down in sheets, cascading from his gutters like a watery, living veil. Writhing and vindictive, desperate to creep down into his basement and join the other standing water building up.

The agent he'd spoken with at his homeowner's insurance told him something was probably wrong with his drainage system, or some shit like that. Pratt's a cop, Pratt's a fucking helicopter pilot—he's not a God damn Contractor. All he knows is that there's standing water in his basement—never more than an inch or so, which tells him at least _some_ drainage is happening because with the amount of accumulation they're getting, he should have a God damn swimming pool by now—and that the insurance agent had lowballed repairs at _at least_ a $1,000, and that's without the bump in his insurance should he file a claim.

He wonders how much water is down there now, figures it has to be significantly more than it has been with the rain's ferocity, but frankly he's too drained to give a shit. The wet vac he'd borrowed from the Sheriff when he first noticed the water is sitting on the steps leading into the basement, and while it's not hard to use or particularly energy consuming...Pratt's tired just thinking about it.

Instead, Pratt cracks open one of the shitty beers he'd bought and downs half of it immediately. When he takes another drag from his cigarette, it again tastes different. Easier, better than it had. He ignores the fact that that's probably a bad sign and finishes the rest of his beer before reaching for another.

-

His cellphone's ringing. Why's it ringing? It's his day off.

Without raising his head from his pillow, Pratt aimlessly smacks his hand down against the surface of his bedside table. He misses his phone the first couple of times, but eventually his fingers find smooth, tempered glass instead of finished wood.

Thankful that he had messed with the accessibility settings when he'd last upgraded his phone, he doesn't even have to open his eyes to accept the call. He just presses harshly on the HOME key and slams his phone against his face.

“What?” he grumbles, uncaring if it's his mom or Sheriff Whitehorse or the God damn stupid President of this stupid country. He wants to _sleep_ , and he's fucking earned it, okay.

“Mornin' to you too, Deputy,” Whitehorse snorts. Way back when, Pratt would've been jolted awake and nearly sick with unease about using that tone with his boss, but it's been years now and Whitehorse is closer to his uncle than anything else.

Pratt doesn't even apologize. He doesn't even form _words_ , just grumbles some more, waiting for the Sheriff to get to the point of his call.

“Look, I know you've been runnin' yourself ragged, but this stuff goin' around finally caught up with McKenna and he's out for the count. I don't have anyone else to call in—” Earl has the decency to at least sound sheepish about it.

The groan that rips its way out of Pratt's chest tingles against his lips, vibrates out his scratchy, cottony throat. It tastes horrible, his mouth tastes horrible, and the more awake he unfortunately becomes, the more he notices that it tastes like something crawled into his throat and died there. “Sheriff—”

“I need at least one more hand on deck, Pratt.”

“Give Nancy a badge for the day, she'll do great. Probably better than the Probie,” Pratt mumbles. He knows for a fact that Nancy's got her concealed carry permit and owns at least one handgun. Not to mention the hunting rifles her husband owns. She's been with the County longer than even the Sheriff, and if anyone knows the law and its regulations it's Nancy.

His idea is unceremoniously discarded. “C'mon, Pratt. I'll even buy you lunch and one of those overly expensive espresso-whatevers.”

“I drank last night,” Pratt says.

He can practically _feel_ the calculating squint of the Sheriff's eyes behind his chunky yellow glasses, like the man can see him all the way from his office swaddled beneath his down comforter, half of his face smushed into his plush latex pillow. “I'm sure it's out of your system by now. It'll be light duty, anyway.”

The urge to pitifully kick his legs and flail about nearly overwhelms him.

“Plus, overtime pay. Don't you need to be saving up to fix your basement?” Low fucking blow, Earl. Low blow.

“I do not like you,” Pratt hisses into his pillow. He's already getting up, back popping and knees cracking as he shambles upright to throw his legs over the side of his bed. The digital clock on his bedside table says 6:56AM in glaringly bright neon red, which means he'd been asleep for a little under nine hours. Long enough to clear the beers from his system, but not nearly long enough to refresh his exhausted body after his already hellish workweek.

“It's almost promotion season. Doesn't Corporal Pratt sound even better than Deputy Pratt?” So smug, Pratt can hear his lazy, triumphant smile. He doesn't have to try very hard to imagine Whitehorse's thick white-blonde mustache twitching and shifting with his win.

Appealing to his vanity usually works, damn him for knowing one of Pratt's weaknesses.

“Venti hot latte, six shots, three pumps of toffee nut.” Pratt rubs at his face with his free hand and ambles towards his bathroom, catching his hip on the doorframe as he goes. It stings but he ignores it, instead focuses on turning on his shower.

“Is that a drink order? Christ, what does that even mean?”

“It _means_ if you expect me to be functional at all it better be on my desk by the time I get there. Oh, and I want Cuban for lunch—not that crappy faux-Mexican place beside the cleaners, but the one in the Market. The one ran by actual Latinos.” The water's hot against his extended hand, steam already beginning to fill the room.

He _does_ need the money—needs to figure out what the fuck to do with his basement, because he's gotta get it squared away one way or another; can't afford to return to his shitty old apartment with its shitty water pressure, his tail between his legs, and if he puts it off any longer it'll be even _more_ expensive to get rid of water damage, or shit like black mold—and the idea of being able to smugly lord his ability to pick up a shift over McKenna and Hudson _is_ pretty sweet.

Whitehorse snorts. “Never change, Pratt.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can't get undressed to get in the shower while on the phone with you, it's uh...kinda really wrong, so uh...I'll see you in like thirty, Sheriff.”

-

It's more like forty, but Whitehorse doesn't say anything. He pointedly looks at the white Starbucks cup on Pratt's desk and then at him, amusement in his green eyes behind his glasses.

“Six whatever, some kinda nut expensive coffee drink, hot and ready.” Whitehorse barks a laugh and shakes his head as Pratt descends on it, discarding the empty travel mug he'd brought from home to hold it between his hands like it's precious.

It's strong and just slightly sweet on his tongue, cool enough that he wastes little time in taking a deeper, longer pull. He'd made coffee in his kitchen before he left, but there's something about shit yourself strong espresso drinks that really wake you the hell up.

“You even got it right,” Pratt sighs happily, lowering himself into his desk chair.

“You texted me your order before you got in the shower,” Whitehorse says with a snort.

“Yeah, well. Even when I do that, Joey messes it up. Can't send her on a coffee run if you expect to get anything near what you ordered.” After another deep pull, Pratt sets his drink down. He doesn't feel like _complete_ shit, but he still wishes he was asleep.

Oh, well. When you're a deputy in a podunk town in the middle of nowhere, Montana, sometimes you have to do shit like this, _especially_ when your Sheriff's Department only has eleven people on the roster total _,_ including dispatch, and half of them are out puking and/or shitting themselves into dehydration.

“If I fall asleep at my desk later just nudge me awake, yeah?”

“If you manage to fall asleep after _that_ I'm calling your mother and staging an intervention.”

“It's too early to be bringing my mother into this,” Pratt grumbles at Whitehorse's retreating back.

-

Thankfully when Whitehorse had said light duty, he'd meant it. They only get one actual emergency call, a two-vehicle collision near the Henbane, and Whitehorse had gone off and taken the call without even saying anything to Pratt. It's almost too slow, too dead, to keep Pratt awake and engaged, but he uses the downtime to simultaneously research how to repair a flooded basement and beat his latest Candy Crush hangup.

By the time Whitehorse returns, it's just passed noon. Pratt's stomach is eating itself from all of the coffee, his hands shaking a little with the built up caffeine without any food in his stomach to absorb it, and Nancy is passive aggressively slamming drawers and doors, lips pursed and forehead wrinkled.

“You hungry, Nancy?” Whitehorse asks after a critical once-over, shaking out of his drenched windbreaker. The glare she gives him would wither lesser men, but as it stands the Sheriff just shakes his head fondly and heads over to Pratt's desk. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and retrieves his debit card, which he holds out to Pratt. “Head on out and get all three of us lunch.”

He's so hungry he might _die_. Pratt wastes little time sticking the Sheriff's card into his wallet and shimmying into his own Hope County Sheriff's Department windbreaker.

“The usual?” he thinks to call before he's out the door. They're all creatures of habit and rarely order anything new, but it's the Sheriff's money and Nancy gets aggressive when she's hangry. Pratt's not looking to court anymore danger, so it's best he clarifies.

Both Whitehorse and Nancy call out their affirmatives. As Pratt's readying himself to leave the station and brave the elements, Whitehorse calls, “Keep it beneath $40, Pratt!”

“No promises!” he cackles, and bolts for his car before Whitehorse can say anything else.

-

He keeps it beneath $40, but just barely. With his mother out of state, Cuba Island has the best Latin food in the area and with all of the talk of his mom, Pratt's got a bit of a hankering. It's not his money, anyway, and Whitehorse owes him—so he kinda splurges.

It doesn't hurt that the restaurant is out near the mountains, which means he gets to drive and kill a small chunk of the remainder of his shift.

He sits in a tiny vinyl booth and feverishly eats a bowlful of homemade flan beside a creepy collection of coqui statues, waiting for their orders to be finished. The rich smell of seasoned plantains and cooking beef billows in and out of the dining room as the wait staff brings orders in and takes empty plates out.

Pratt shovels flan into his mouth faster, trying to get his rumbling stomach to quiet. He hadn't eaten anything last night after shift or this morning when he'd been called in, and at this point if he doesn't get something substantial in himself soon he's gonna start eating the table. Maybe one of the God damn frog statues.

He'd even ordered an extra side of plantains to eat after he'd finished his flan, but the wait staff seem determined to bring his entire order out at once, even with the desperate, hungry glances he throws at each and every person entering and exiting the kitchen.

From atop the booth's table, his cellphone vibrates. He watches the display light up with a text from Hudson, showcasing a series of beach themed emojis. There's probably a picture attached. Opening the text confirms his suspicions, and Pratt smiles softly at the picture before him: Hudson's pale, pale legs stretched out on a towel beside her girlfriend Naomi's significantly darker russet complexion, the sand golden and the water blue and foamy before them. Their toenails match, painted a bright teal, and around Hudson's left ankle and Naomi's right sit stark white puka shell anklets.

It's cute. Hudson deserves her happiness, Naomi too. She's an EMT that had moved to Hope County almost a year ago to take care of her ailing aunt. They'd met on scene one afternoon a month after Naomi's move, and the rest had been history.

Pratt's not jealous, he's not. Just because Hudson's found happiness and he's gone from bedhopping in the larger cities, Missoula or Helena or, fuck, even Bozeman, on the weekends to a particularly dry dryspell, doesn't mean he's _jealous_. He could find love if he wanted it, if he had _time_ for it. He's a fucking catch—so what if the people he dates and inevitably breaks it off with tell him he's a bit of a drama queen?

After saving her picture, he sends her one of his own: his middle finger against the backdrop of a band of coqui frog statues playing fiddles from atop a log. He makes sure to get a decent amount of the rain pouring down outside in the shot.

A throat being cleared over his shoulder startles him, almost has him dropping his phone. An amused middle-aged man stands before him with his food bundled up in two plastic bags, ready to go.

“Having fun, Deputy?” he asks.

“ _Loads_ ,” Pratt grumbles. He takes the bags with a quiet word of thanks and escapes the restaurant with minimal eye contact. The cool rain pelting down on his head, sliding down his throat and beneath his shirt, balms his furiously burning cheeks.

-

Admittedly, it's not exactly a safe nor strictly legal thing to do, but Pratt begins his drive back to the station by eating his plantains and steering with his knee. He wouldn't pull anyone over for doing it unless they failed to maintain control of their vehicle, so he splits his attentions between driving carefully and shoveling sweet, warm plantains into his mouth.

With the rain and winding roads he's driving beneath the speed limit, anyway.

Besides, the roads are deserted.

Or, well. Were. Were deserted.

From his left, a black truck-shaped blur roars passed him. It merges back into the proper lane a little too early, almost takes out the entire left side of Pratt's squad car. He's forced to jerk sharply to the right to avoid an accident, while the asshole in front of him continues on, uncaring that they'd almost hit a fucking _cop_ , not to mention they're breaking the speed limit and just illegally passed in a NO PASSING zone.

In his haste to get out of the truck's path, Pratt drops his half-full styrofoam container. Most of the food fell to the rubber floor liner at his feet, but a decent amount of it is in his fucking _lap_ , warm and sticky on his thighs.

Pratt flips his lights on and just barely resists the urge to wail on his horn. He settles for cursing up a storm and beating the heel of his left hand against the steering wheel.

It takes black truck almost a full two minutes to pull over, and they do so leisurely. Pratt's _seething_ , breathing heavily through his nose. The strong scent of the wasted food he's still wearing only makes him madder. It smells wrong now, sickeningly sweet but somehow bittered by how shit his life has become. One mishap right after the other, the universe taking a dump on him over and over.

He doesn't get out of the squad car right away, partially because he wants black truck to sweat it out, partially because his hands are shaking and he's mildly worried he might snap and draw his sidearm. Instead, he focuses on trying to regulate his breathing while he looks to black truck's license plate to run their information. When his brain finally catches up and interprets what his eyes are seeing, he doesn't even need to finish reading the plate.

It's Jacob God damn Seed.

“Ginger _asshole_ ,” Pratt hisses, entering the rest of Jacob's plate from memory. He's pulled over Jacob countless times since he and his family had moved to Hope County, and somehow Jacob always gets out of his tickets. Sure, he's got points on his license, but he shouldn't _have_ a license with the way he drives, like a bat outta hell, like a bullet from a gun.

Does he have a fucking lawyer somewhere on retainer to get him out of his traffic violations? Christ.

When Pratt finally calms enough to get out of the car, he's got to clear the cooling, sticky plantains from his lap. The food slaps against the soaked pavement with a squelch, and with a last, pitiful look of longing towards the food he would've loved to finish, Pratt approaches the driver's side door.

Jacob's got the window down all the way, one long arm draped half in, half out of the cab. Unmindful of the rain dampening the sleeve of his dark gray henley as he idly taps his fingers against the rubber of the window channel. The engine's been cut off but his music's still on, something low and instrumental at the moment. Twangy, almost. The volume's too low for Pratt to make it out. Jacob idly keeps time with his music by thumping his right thumb against the steering wheel, both hands quietly, compliantly, in view.

“Really, Jacob? Really.” He makes no attempt at hiding how incredulous and pissed off he is. It'd be a shitty thing to do to a civilian, but to a cop? What Jacob just did was God damn stupid, and with the way Pratt's life's been going, he's sorely tempted to arrest Jacob for reckless driving.

“Afternoon, Officer,” Jacob says with a slow, shit-eating grin. His teeth are bright and white, huge in his mouth behind plush pink lips. He's handsome in a fucked up way, with strong masculine features and full, bright red hair. His face scarred and weathered to high heaven, from tragedy during his military service, Pratt assumes. Knows he served in the Gulf, knows his family's been through some Shit in their day.

Knows what it feels like to break up a fight Jacob's finished, that Jacob's won, Jacob _allowing_ his huge body to be subdued and manipulated away from his opponent even though he could clearly, easily break Pratt's hold on him. Muscled shoulders and skin giving off heat like a furnace against Pratt's chest, the violent energy thrumming inside of him threatening to shake them both apart. They're nearly of a height, Jacob having only a handful of inches on him, but where Pratt is lean Jacob is broad. Ample shoulders with a thick waist and giant, paw-like hands, he's a big fucking dude.

Usually Pratt's attraction to him is fine. He gets off on how unruly Jacob is, how near-feral and dickish he acts even around law enforcement and clergy, which his brother is a member of. Jacob wouldn't mind Pratt being a little shit because he would _expect_ it, welcome it, even. Enjoy gnashing his teeth at him as Pratt swipes at him with his claws, deep booming laughter egging Pratt on.

The sex would be fucking fantastic. World-ending, probably. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

Tragically, Pratt's pretty sure Jacob's one of those horrendously straight military dudebros who only bang catty, aggressively tiny white girls. He flirts with everything that moves, sure, but it's mostly a power move. Montana's got a lot of dudebros, military and not, and a good part of their rank and file are the easily flustered, straight “I ain't a faggot” type of white trash, and Jacob Seed _loves_ to pick a fight by any possible means.

It's a shame, really, because Jacob looks like he's seen a thing or two, and could teach even more. Pratt looks at him sometimes and just _knows_ his dick's big—no one's that cocky and self-assured and packing less than eight. He thinks about it sometimes with his fist wrapped around his own shaft, wonders what big bad Jacob fucking Seed would feel like inside of him.

But with his pants still sticky and plantains still sitting in his floor mat instead of in his stomach, with rain beating down against his body, Pratt's attraction is pissing him the fuck off. He looks at Jacob's smarmy, icy blue eyes as they appraise him, dark auburn lashes batting at him in faux innocence, and wishes he could throttle the man within an inch of his life without the dashcam footage ruining his career.

“Do you _want_ to go to jail, Jacob? I dunno what kind of judicial fairy godmother you've got lingering around these parts, but you nearly fuckin' took me out back there!” He gestures forcefully at his squad car as the rain slithers down his wrist and into the sleeve of his jacket. It's cold but feels good against his too-hot skin.

“I dunno what you mean, Deputy Pratt,” Jacob hums. He gestures lazily with his left hand, rain dotting his open palm.

“You're full of shit, Jacob,” Pratt nearly shrieks. He knows Jacob's gearing to wind him up, that Jacob hasn't even started pressing his buttons, but Pratt's fuse is laughably short. Just a few more minuscule cranks and he's likely to fly off the handle.

Worse than the fact he knows what Jacob's doing is the fact that it feels _good_ to rage against him, even just a little. Safe, almost, like Jacob can and will readily absorb all of his anger.

Jacob snorts, turning his head away as he laughs at him. The sharp, white points of his canines dig into his lower lip, blanching away pinkness. He's smarmy, cocky, _handsome_ , and Pratt's grateful that he's looking away for the moment and doesn't see Pratt's hands twitching anxiously at his sides. Unsure whether or not he'd reach forward to bodily drag Jacob out to hit him or kiss him.

“It's been a shit week and I'm _not_ in the mood for this, Jacob. Seriously, give me one good reason not to ticket you to high heaven, or better yet _arrest you_.” When Jacob turns those cold, calculating eyes on him, Pratt stands his ground, moored by his indignation and fury.

“On what grounds?” Jacob asks. The tone of his voice is bored, disinterested, and even that's fuel to the fire of Pratt's rage.

“Let's see!” Pratt theatrically makes a show of opening his hand between them and beginning to tick off Jacob's infractions on his fingers, wet and beaded with rain. “Driving over the speed limit, _especially_ in inclement weather. Passing in a NO PASSING zone, it's _clearly_ marked, Jacob. Reckless driving. Endangering a police officer!”

“You were never in any _danger_ ,” Jacob drawls.

“If I hadn't been paying attention, you would've hit me!”

“If you weren't paying attention, should you really be a cop?”

“You made me spill my food!” Pratt shrieks, all pretenses of restraint thrown to the wind. He throws his arms out and groans.

“My, my, my. Really upholding the law there, Deputy Pratt. Way to set an example,” Jacob laughs. His eyes are cold but they _burn_ as they assess him, dragging leisurely up and down all of Pratt Jacob can see from this angle. They zero in on the stains on his lap, lips cutting up in a smirk, the tips of it sharp like the points of lures.

Pratt squirms. Longs to cross his arms over his chest or shift his body away to hide the incriminating evidence.

“Thought you smelt sweet,” Jacob mumbles, almost to himself. “Smell like a fuckin' banana.”

“They're _plantains_ , puto,” Pratt answers in kind, unable to control himself. His chin is tucked against his shoulder, words muffled into the slippery material of his jacket. His cheeks are on fire, ruddy and damning, bright like a beacon. What the fuck does that mean— _thought you smelt sweet_? Jesus. Pratt knew the Seed brothers were weird but Jacob takes the cake, and he's even seen Joseph preaching to his "flock, not cult" without a shirt on.

“Huh. My apologies-o.” There's mirth in Jacob's too blue eyes, but he delivers the line deadpan, face nearly blank.

“I'm going to taze you,” Pratt says, eyes narrowed.

“Usually I work up to tasers, but if you wanna jump straight to that, who'm I to judge you?” Jacob's right hand is no longer in sight, but Pratt's not afraid. He's adrift in a sea of frustration, barely buoyed by the common sense keeping him from _actually_ tazing Jacob.

“Give me one good reason not to arrest you.” At this point, Pratt's talked a big enough game that if Jacob presses him, in order to keep his dignity intact he'll have to get his cuffs out and go through with it.

“It's a beautiful day? You've got better things to do?” Jacob suggests. “No need to dampen the mood by introducing charges that won't stick, anyway?”

“Those are shitty reasons,” Pratt huffs. “Lots of shitty stuff goin' on in my life. Might feel good to detain some reckless devil may care dickbag on charges that are definitely substantiated.”

Jacob's leaning against the truck door so deeply the rain dripping from the roof is dampening his hair, splashing down against high, scarred cheekbones. He gives Pratt another once over, and this time he does squirm, caught between Jacob's piercing gaze and the precipice Pratt's backed himself up against.

To arrest or not to arrest?

“Aw, what kinda stuff? Spilled your 'nanas? Ran out of conditioner—break a nail, huh?”

To _arrest_.

Pratt takes a step forward, hand on his hip near his cuffs. He watches a little of the mirth in Jacob's eyes flare out, his body drawing back into the cab a touch, coiling back up like a spring.

“What can be sooo rough, huh, Deputy? There's nothing to _do_ out here, how can anything go wrong?”

“Plenty can go wrong,” Pratt grumbles. “Half the precinct is out sick. The rain is turning my basement into an Olympic swimming pool. I've—”

“Why is your basement flooded?” Jacob questions, his shoulders losing some of their tension when Pratt doesn't move again.

“If I knew that, would it be flooded?” The laughter bubbles up and out of his chest without Pratt's permission. He sounds hysterical, probably looks it too. Drenched and flailing and nearly shrieking on the side of the road, his lights still flashing, bathing him in red blue red blue red.

“Don't arrest me. Let me go,” Jacob says.

“Like it's that simple—”

The raindrops and flashing lights catching on his scarred face give him a haunting, almost ethereal glow. “You do know what I do for a living, right?”

No? Pratt says as much. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking at Jacob's shoulder instead of his eyes.

“Jesus. Okay. I'm going to go,” Jacob tells him, already reaching his right hand for his keys in the ignition. His hand is moving slowly, as if he's only mostly sure he's going to get away with being an insolent asshole. “You've got my phone number in your paper work—call me once you figure it out and I'll make you forgetting this happened worth your while.”

“That's not how this _works_ , Jacob.”

“Isn't it?” The truck roars to life, purrs smoothly, deeply, before Pratt. He can feel the banked power in it and wonders if Jacob actually uses a truck that large for labor, or just as an visible extension of his dick. “Cops and soldiers can get away with almost anything, y'know.”

“Jacob,” Pratt says sternly, but he makes no move to stop him from moving. He stands there in the rain and watches Jacob's truck get further and further away. There's a bend in the road that Jacob's steadily approaching, still much too fast. Pratt's eyes don't leave the bumper until Jacob's physically out of sight, and even then he strains a little, like if he focused just a touch more he could see Jacob's taillights through the surrounding copses of trees.

By the time Pratt shakes himself out of it and heads back to his squad car, he's soaked clean through and the food's probably cold. Before he gets in, he shakes the wasted fried plantains out of the footwell's rubber mat.

He's wholly confused about what just happened, what he allowed to happen. It feels like he just played a game of chicken with Jacob Seed and simultaneously won and lost. His stomach feels weird, knotted and fluttery, like something fucked up happened to the butterflies that should be fluttering around in there.

_"You do know what I do for a living, right?"_

If it's got something to do with helping him fix his flooded basement, Pratt figures he mostly won, but the thought of actually inviting Jacob into his home has his fingers curling and uncurling anxiously around the steering wheel, like he's making some kind of clandestine deal, possibly with the Devil.

He drives back to the station in silence, the smell of fried plantains thick and cloying in his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i starting another story? yeah. will i finish this one? god i hope so, because this au verse is all i can think about. the will to write comes and goes in fits, and i'm hoping to rangle it long enough to finish this and at least one other WIP.
> 
> as per usual, title taken from a song. "don't wanna fight" by alabama shakes.
> 
> cuba island is a real restaurant in my city with a SHIT TON of coqui (lil frogs) statues. i'm really fuckin' craving ropa vieja and platanos fritos and it's my own gd fault :-(


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added the dedications i chickened out of when i posted the first chapter. thank you sweet, sweet [heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyamoeba/pseuds/Crazyamoeba) for cheering me on on tumblr/discord, and thank you [different_approach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Different_approach/pseuds/Different_approach/works) for your badass j/s work and being great as hell. i love you both and i'm incredibly inspired and driven by y'all!!! (◡‿◡✿)

When he arrives back at the Station, Sheriff Whitehorse is seated on the corner of Pratt's desk, Nancy standing before him, arms crossed. They're talking about something, probably Pratt's tardiness, but their conversation stops when they both notice he's returned. The Sheriff turns to Pratt and opens his mouth to say something, ask him where the hell he's been, did he go all the way to Cuba to get their lunch? But whatever it is dies on the tip of his tongue when he gets a good look at his deputy. Waterlogged, his hair damp and stringy, dripping down his shiny, slick jacket. His lower lip snagged between his teeth, hiding how it's raw and stinging from him anxiously biting away dry skin on his drive back.

His boots squeak on the tile floor as he crosses the room, depositing the bags of food on a nearby desk. The food's still warm, thank God, he can feel it radiating through the styrofoam and the plastic bags as he carefully sets it down. Pratt doesn't think he could stomach whatever the hell that was with Jacob Seed on top of Nancy's indignant, hangry wrath.

“Jesus, Pratt. You look like a drowned rat. You okay? You walk back from the Market?” Whitehorse says, the teasing in his words disguising the genuine worry in his eyes. He makes no move to take his meal when Nancy begins divvying out the containers, instead opting to continue eyeing Pratt.

“We were about to send out a search party you'd been gone so long,” Nancy chimes in. Now that she's received her food, she quietly gives them both her thanks and shuffles off, back to her own desk in the far corner of the room.

Pratt snorts quietly as he all but throws himself into his desk chair. He's cold and wet and fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. Idly he wonders if he's got a spare change of clothes in the car or his locker in the back, and if he's got the energy to spare to check either spot, retrieve it, and actually change _into_ it. His horrible work-hours-to-sleep-hours ratio is catching up to him, aching in his joints and muddying his thoughts. All of the caffeine he took in earlier feels like it's been burnt away, eaten up by Pratt's indignant rage when faced with Jacob Seed's usual frustrating but alluring bullshit.

It'd be okay if his shift was nearly over, he could deal with wet clothes for a little while, could push through the exhausted feeling rattling around in his chest. He'll fall asleep tonight quickly and effortlessly at any rate, but he still has a handful of hours left to go before he can safely even _think_ about his bed. While he might joke about falling asleep on the job, Pratt would rather be caught dead before slacking off to that degree. Even if they have been working him into an early grave.

He doesn't even wanna _think_ about the wet clusterfuck he's got waiting for him back home. Doesn't have the energy for it.

“There's no party to send to search,” he mumbles, even though Nancy is in her own little world now. Headphones in her ears and iPad on her desk, loading up her programs as she shovels food into her mouth. He can smell her arroz con frijoles from here, and while he's still hungry the thought of Cuban food makes him think of fried plantains, which makes him think of them in his floorwell, which makes him think of Jacob's too blue eyes boring into his face, telling him he smells like fucking bananas.

Fuck, he needs more coffee for this. Pratt scrubs at his face and wonders if another six shot latte would be a productive choice, or a destructive one. Doesn't too much caffeine fuck with your heart? He could probably do light duty with heart palpitations and shaky hands. The paperwork would be near illegible, but it'd be done.

“Everything alright out on the roads?” Pratt doesn't meet Whitehorse's eyes, and he's not entirely quite sure why. He might be a little on the insubordinate side but he's never kept things from the Sheriff, and yet for some reason he doesn't want to tell Whitehorse about pulling Jacob over.

The nod and affirmative hum he gives are both noncommittal. He occupies his hands by fishing out his wallet to retrieve the Sheriff's card and receipt, gives his eyes a reason to stay off of Earl.

“Yeah, just uh – just almost hit a deer on my way back. Wasn't paying attention, I guess,” he lies, gaze firmly on the receipt in his hand as he extends it forward.

CUBA ISLAND, 04/11/2018 12:43PM

It's nearly two o'clock now. Pratt hadn't even realized he'd been gone so long. No wonder Whitehorse is still trying to pick away at his story.

“You okay?” he asks again. The fatherly concern makes his cheeks burn, makes his stomach churn guiltily. Whitehorse means a lot to him—more uncle than father because Pratt doesn't _do_ fathers, not after his hijo de puta sperm donor left his mother before she even birthed him—and lying to him feels Wrong but somehow Necessary. He doesn't think he'd be able to explain what had happened even if he wanted to be truthful, Jacob appearing out of nowhere and nearly sideswiping him, then being his normal cryptic, assholish self only to offer to check out Pratt's basement.

Plus, Pratt has a hard time disengaging his frustrating attraction to Jacob in his head, and while Whitehorse has met some of his previous conquests and never had a problem with their genders Pratt doesn't know how he'll react to Pratt's latest Thing being for Jacob. Not because he's a man, but because he's Jacob Seed.

It's not that Jacob's a terrible guy, though Pratt doesn't know him well enough outside barfights and traffic court and roadside pull-overs to be 100% certain of that declaration. He's...complicated, for lack of a better word. He drives too fast and doesn't watch his mouth, and his family is kinda batshit. His brother, Joseph, is the leader of an almost cult, and while Pratt's never met John in person, he knows the youngest Seed is _just_ a little unhinged. Hugely tattooed and volatile, whip smart and cocksure.

Jacob's an asshole, a smarmy little shit who tends to get his way with his wolfish grin and clever tongue, and he's _huge_ with a big mouth to match. An imposing and cutting presence in every way possible, and the livid scarring all over his body begs the question: _how the fuck did he get that way?_

Self inflicted? Selflessly intervening in a house fire? Arson? Stupidly drinking around an open fire? Retribution from someone he had wronged?

But the only times they get called on him he seems to be ending the situation instead of creating it, like in that barfight last fall.

Pratt knows Jacob hadn't been wholly innocent in that situation, that he'd egged on the bastard before he smashed his face into the bartop of the Spread Eagle. He knows that Jacob wasn't the aggressor, though. That he had even tried to disengage, but the guy wouldn't leave him be. Jacob wasn't the type to give out multiple chances, so he'd doubled down and rectified the situation.

Everyone seemed surprised to tell him that when he took statements, Jacob handcuffed and bleeding sluggishly from his nose in the back of the Sheriff's squad car while Hudson oversaw the fight's loser getting treatment from Naomi and another EMT. Malcolm Hardy's own handcuffs were hidden beneath the blanket stretched over his lap, connected low on the side railing of the gurney.

There had been broken glass and spilled beer all over Mary May's previously immaculate bar, the smell of blood and greasy food overpowered by cheap beer. A shattered barstool sat in jagged pieces half on the bartop and half thrown aimlessly across the room. Pratt had to weave around it and chunks of glass sitting in puddles of piss-gold beer to get to Whitehorse's side so they could take her statement.

While she had seemed pissed off, the muscles in her forearms furiously pronounced as she scrubbed away beer and blood, it wasn't actively at Jacob.

“He tried,” she'd said as she continued straightening up her bar. Like with the blood, the smell of the cleaner she used to spray down the bartop was overpowered by the stench of beer. “But dickhead wouldn't _stop_. He'd asked about Jacob's service, looked genuinely interested and respectful, but when Jacob only acknowledged him the bare minimum the guy got pissy and started asking about Jacob's scars.” The look in her eyes is soft and sad, a little far away. The former patriarch of the Fairgrave family had been wounded in combat, had his left leg amputated and shrapnel removed from his gut, and Mary May was incredibly defensive of his privacy, even if Gary Fairgrave hadn't been.

“Jacob didn't start it?” Pratt had asked, suspicious despite himself. You can't judge a book by its cover and other bullshit like that, but he'd pulled over Jacob and the Sheriff had been called out to Eli Palmer's shop enough times to know Jacob's not exactly pure as the driven snow.

“Not at all. You look at him and kinda suspect he would've, but he didn't. Honest to God,” Mary May answered, lifting her right hand up for emphasis, palm displayed to them both. “I know he and Palmer have problems, but he didn't start trouble here, just finished it. Let that shitdick Hardy know he's banned from my bar, but tell Jacob he's free to come back _if_ he promises not to break anymore of my shit.”

“Tell him he can make it up to you by doin' odd jobs around here,” Whitehorse said with a chuckle, tucking away his notepad and heading for the door. “Gonna go talk to Jacob. Pratt, go see Hardy before the ambulance goes, try an' talk him out of pressing charges and lookin' stupid when they slide off Jacob's back like everything else.”

Pratt startles back to himself when Whitehorse snaps his fingers in front of his face. His other hand is braced on Pratt's shoulder, fingers squeezing gently. There's genuine, stark concern on Earl's face, and Pratt flushes horribly and helplessly averts his gaze.

“Y'comin' down with the crud everyone else has, son?” Whitehorse asks quietly. There's only one person in the squadroom besides them and that one other person has headphones in, but he still keeps his voice low and even, respectful and concerned.

That's an out if Pratt's ever seen one. He nods furiously and somehow manages to hold Whitehorse's gaze for a moment before looking away again.

“That must be it,” he mumbles. Whitehorse slowly withdraws the hand from Pratt's shoulder, but all of his attention is still on Pratt. Body curled a little towards him, blocking the rest of the room out of sight. He clasps his hands in his lap and looks so fucking zen it calms Pratt down a little, allows him to collect his thoughts so he can spin a mostly believable reason for his state of mind. “Tired and I got all that shit goin' on with my basement, and then that – that deer. It's just a lot at once, Sheriff. I'm alright, I promise.”

It doesn't look like the answer Whitehorse wants, nor the answer he believes. He's a damn good cop, though, and he knows there's both a right and a wrong way of extracting information out of people. He takes Pratt's words at face value after critically assessing Pratt's face for a moment more. He leisurely returns his debit card to his wallet and collects his food, effectively dropping the subject.

Pratt breathes a sigh of relief until Whitehorse stops before his office door and turns around.

“Y'can always come to me, son, with anything,” Whitehorse says. “I'm your boss but I'm also practically your family, so. Just...remember that, okay?”

His eyes are _not_ mysteriously stinging, and Pratt doesn't helplessly stare at Whitehorse's door long after its been closed.

-

In order to make the time pass and keep his mind off Other Things, Pratt focuses on finishing up the paperwork that had been mounting in the wake of the Great Shitting and Puking Crisis of 2018. It's tedious, boring work, but it makes his thoughts go blank and allows him to coast for a few hours.

It doesn't last long enough, though. He's caught up by just after three o'clock, which means he still has roughly another two and a half hours before his relief comes in.

 _You could look up Jacob Seed's information_ , a voice in his head says.

“Or I could fuckin' not,” he grumbles quietly to himself, forcefully shutting the last of his finished reports.

“You say something, dear?” Nancy calls from her own desk.

“Just talking to myself, Nance. Don't mind me,” he calls, waving her off. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her shrug and go back to her iPad, this time playing Solitaire instead of watching one of her shows.

“Just gotta occupy myself,” he whispers, rising to his feet. He'll straighten up around the squadroom, maybe get some more coffee. Definitely won't snoop through files to get Jacob's cellphone number, certainly fucking not.

He's halfway through a new bin of Clorox wipes, the chemically lemon scent familiar and weirdly comforting as he wipes down all the doorknobs and phones and other communal, often-touched items, when he gives in spectacularly. Barely puts up a fight. One minute, he's scrubbing at the makeshift kitchen counter in the squadroom, and the next he's standing ramrod straight and pivoting around. The wipe in his hand is summarily discarded into a nearby waste bin, though it doesn't actually go _into_ the trash so much as drapes lamely over the lip of the bin.

Despite himself he's back at his desk, peaking his head around the sides of his computer to make sure the coast is clear. Nancy is well occupied by her game, and from his office chair, Sheriff Whitehorse is rocking back and forth while taking on the phone with his wife, but it still feels illicit, typing SEED, JACOB into the County's database. Like sirens are going to go off as soon as he hits ENTER and announce to the others that he's got the fucking hots for Jacob. The Sheriff will hurriedly end his phone call to investigate and the siren will change from a blaring high-pitched alert to a woman's computerized voice saying, “He has lied to you, Sheriff. He did not almost hit a deer, but Jacob fucking Seed, and now he is looking him up in the System like a creep.”

 _He told me to!_ Pratt thinks furiously. It's wholly irrational, he's being fucking stupid, but Jacob gets under his skin in the worst way. He's not even here and Pratt's cheeks are flushing in anger and arousal.

 _You liiiike it, you leeeeet him. You let him pull your pigtails because you want to fuuuck him_ , a voice in his head singsongs, and it sounds suspiciously like Jacob's mocking, curling voice.

He squirms in his desk chair and types with more force than necessary.

Jacob's been arrested without having charges filed, so his information is only partially finished. Still, it's a lot more information than Pratt had formally had, or at least more than he _remembered_. He's seen Jacob's license enough to know that he's a good bit older than Pratt, knows that he lives on the outskirts of town, but having all of that information and more right at his fingertips is a strange, warm, heady feeling.

**NAME / AGE / DOB / SEX**

Seed, Jacob Elijah / 46 / 09/01/1971 / M

 **RACE** White

 **DESCRIPTION** 6'2” 200lbs White, Red Hair, Blue Eyes

 **MARKS** Scars on face and upper body, unknown if tattoos

 **OCCUPATION** Handyman

“Son of a bitch,” Pratt whispers as he stops reading. “Son of a bitch, son of a bitch.”

-

By the end of his shift, Pratt's still oscillating between calling Jacob and _not fucking calling Jacob you stupid God damn idiot, do you WANT him to kick your ass if you have a lapse in judgment and come onto him in your own home?_ He'd written Jacob's number down on one of the Department's business cards, which he's been toying with in his hands since penning the last digit of Jacob's number.

He doesn't write Jacob's name on it, just underlines his phone number absently a couple of times, but it's damning all the same.

The cardstock is wrinkled and bent from Pratt's fidgeting. It sits like a stone in his jacket pocket as he drives home, his grip on the wheel tense, his eyes burning as he watches the windshield wipers sluice through the drizzling rain. The drive home is uneventful, no dispatch broadcasts coming in and no massive black trucks blowing by.

It should be calm and peaceful, Hope County is beautiful and lusciously green thanks to all of the rain. Picturesque, tourists passing through always tell him. Not entertaining enough to stick around in, but nice enough to drive through, spend an afternoon. The Whitetails capture the most attention, draws the majority of the shutterbugs to worship at its base with offerings of wonderment.

Despite the rolling green hills around him, he's wired and restless. Pratt's nerves are shot worse than they've been all month. He's caught his second wind, full of manic energy though his eyes ache with exhaustion.

The rain's stopped by the time he parks his squad car beside his personal vehicle. He shoves his hands into his pockets, keys biting into the palm of his right hand, and carefully crosses his waterlogged front yard. Unearthed worms wriggle across his walkway, and he steps around them the best he can.

He goes through the motions of decompressing after work to his best abilities. Checks his mail before he goes inside, two bills he's already paid for the month, an appointment reminder from his primary physician that his annual health screening is coming up, a magazine for police officers he's canceled three times but still gets, didn't even sign up for in the first place. Hangs up his coat by the door, throws his keys and the mail into the bowl on his kitchen counter. Slips off his work boots and makes a half-assed attempt to line them up straight against the wall with his stocking feet.

After shimmying out of his work uniform, Pratt stands before his closet in his boxer-briefs and frowns, hands braced on his hips. His normal routine involves sweats or flannel pajama pants, but with the possibility of company he should probably put on something less sloppy.

He doesn't actively plan on calling Jacob, but he knows himself well enough that he probably will break down at some point. Sooner rather than later, in all likelihood. He honestly needs the help, and he's not above using his deputy status to garner him free or cheap labor. Plus, Jacob appears to be a halfway decent handyman. After figuring out what Jacob actually did, he looked him up and read a few of his Yelp reviews—reasonably priced, on time, does more than he charges for. One of the reviews calls him “intense but oddly charming”, and Pratt had snorted hard into his drink, garnering him a raised brow from the Sheriff. An apt description if there ever was one.

There's one scathing review, but it's less review and more the pissed-off ravings of a slighted former partner. Eli Palmer, Pratt assumes, who's called the Station several times with complaints about Jacob having stolen his business. Most of the time it's Whitehorse who responds to Palmer's calls so Pratt is a little out of the loop, but it sounds like he and Jacob had worked together for a short while before they split. Doesn't look like an amicable one, either. Jacob took most of the business with him, though Pratt doesn't know if people just followed him in the separation or if there was something more malicious and slanderous involved.

“Regular clothes it is,” Pratt mumbles to himself. He heads for his closet door and stops when he gets a good look at himself in the mirror hanging over the back of the door. He studies his reflection, turning his body this way and that to get a look at himself from different angles. Sucks in his stomach, pushes it out again. Smooths a hand through his hair and then both down his sides. It's dark in his room, he hadn't bothered to turn on lights. Even with his blinds cracked it's still overcast outside so not much light comes in, and what little does casts weird, unfamiliar lines of shadow across his tawny skin.

Tall and reasonably built, Pratt's never had any issues with how he looks. He generally takes care of himself, works out a couple times a week and attempts not to completely obliterate his caloric intake on a day to day basis. His job is fairly active and in their downtime, he and Hudson try to spend time outdoors as often as possible, hiking in the mountains or swimming in the Henbane and its offshoots. Fishing too, sometimes, though Pratt doesn't care for it and neither does Hudson—that's all on Naomi, she loves it for some weird fucking reason. He doesn't complain (much) about it, as Naomi cooks a mean salmon.

It all helps to keep him in shape, even the monotony of casting his line and reeling it back in.

There's tone in his arms, definition in his abdomen and calves, and the dark hair dusting up his abs and spreading across his chest is just the right amount to look good and not like a wild animal spread out across his torso and died. He's _handsome_ , never had any complaints before. He's even been called pretty, though that one rankled him a little, had him butching up his wardrobe and growing his beard out to address his chronic baby face. It doesn't address his soft doe eyes, the beauty marks all over his body, his face and his throat and chest, or his full lips, but it's enough that he hasn't been called that in a while.

Would Jacob be interested? He likes the thought of Jacob's huge, pale hands contrasting sharply with the skin of Pratt's hips, the meat of his inner thighs. Callouses on hands roughened by hard work dragging over sensitive skin, pushing his legs apart so Jacob's huge, warm body can slither between them. Jacob's superior weight pressing him into a mattress, a couch, heavy and so welcome. Sitting astride thick thighs in the backseat of Jacob's truck, clothing pushed just enough to the side for them to get at each other.

He's not a woman, though. Not what he assumes would be Jacob's type. He doesn't even know Jacob but he wants to be found attractive by him, wants to be desired as he desires.

Fingers splayed, palm flat, he drags his hand up from the center of his abdomen up through his chest hair to rest gingerly against his throat. When he swallows his Adam's Apple bobs, knocking against the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He applies pressure and imagines it's Jacob's hand, Jacob's arm draped across his chest, but even with the darkness of the room Pratt can only stick with the illusion for so long.

Cheeks furiously burning, Pratt pointedly looks away from his reflection and throws his closet door open with a touch too much force. The mirror rattles ominously in its hangar on the other side of the door, reminding Pratt of his dubiously fixed garage door.

He's not a woman and Jacob isn't interested, but Pratt picks out a pair of jeans that hug his ass and a soft, flattering dark green and black flannel button up anyway. The material of his shirt is soft beneath his fingertips as he buttons it, and smells heavily of his favorite fabric softener.

“This is stupid,” Pratt hisses at himself. He does up the last two buttons and then quickly undoes them again, spreading open the throat of his shirt with his fingertips.

In his bathroom, he quickly runs a brush through his hair and debates on brushing his teeth again. He decides that's taking this pipedream a little too far. With one last look at his reflection, this time in the bathroom vanity instead of the full-body mirror in his bedroom, Pratt nods at himself and heads downstairs.

To keep his thoughts from forming and wandering, Pratt connects his cellphone to a bluetooth speaker. The music he plays is louder than he'd ever have played it in his apartment, but out here unless he absolutely blared it his neighbors on either side wouldn't hear a peep. His Pandora station is all over the place, hits from the 2000's and random indie and alt bullshit from today. Something soft and vaguely whiny comes on first, and with a roll of his eyes he skips the song and settles into something significantly faster and more aggressive.

He tidies up. Fixes his couch up, fluffs the decorative pillows Hudson had insisted on, folds the afghans thrown over the back of it and his arm chair. The remote holder in the center of his coffee table spins gently as he deposits his useless TV remote into one of the holders. He hasn't bothered to replace the TV down here, had opted to move his gaming stuff upstairs and into his bedroom, so it's mostly just for decoration now.

He's generally a pretty neat guy, tries to keep things orderly and dishes out of his sink, force of habit after living with his super orderly mother for so many years, but he's got a lot of _stuff—_ picture frames and wall art, weird little trinkets and decorative pieces he's found on his travels. His mother calls it insightful, his delightful little clutter. Says it gives his guests a look at his soul. He doesn't necessarily agree with her, but it's an interesting theory.

Jacob doesn't look like the decorating type. He'd be largely spartan, Pratt muses, thoughts wandering even with the bass thudding pleasantly in his ears. No need for the knickknacks Pratt has throughout his home, nor the multiple bookshelves and other various pieces of furniture Pratt owns to house them all.

Pratt wants to call Hudson and pick her brain. She's always had her head on straighter than him, always been more even keel. Less likely to spiral into aggressive tendencies, to get herself into stupid situations in the first place. Does he call Jacob? He should, if only in a strictly professional setting. Jacob's already offered to at least come take a look, it wouldn't be weird to call him.

It'd be easier to work this out with Joey than Whitehorse, but even the thought of having to explain everything to her has him uneasy.

_Yes, Jo, I wanna fuck him—yes, that Jacob Seed. No, I'm not gonna try. Should I just see if enough water's built up and try to drown myself instead? K, thanks. Enjoy the beach!_

“Rip off the bandaid, Pratt,” he says, quickly sorting through the old mail piled beneath the new. He rips up a few old statements and chucks them in the trash. “If you don't call now, you're just gonna fuck your basement worse. Plus, the next time you inevitably have to pull him over, and you're gonna do it again, he's gonna call you a – a stubborn bitch or something, and then you'll have to kill him.”

The card with Jacob's phone number mocks him from the coat hangar beside his front door. He can't even see it but he can _feel_ it, like it's beckoning his eyes to gaze over in its direction.

He takes a couple of deep breaths. He's attractive, got a good paying job with benefits and a nice home sans the flooded basement—he's a _catch_ , and even if this thing with Jacob never becomes an actual Thing, he'll hopefully get his shit fixed and come out on top.

 _Just do it, just do it, just do it_ , he tells himself after he's retrieved Jacob's number. He returns to his cellphone and turns off his music. He doesn't save Jacob's number as a contact, simply dials it outright and presses CALL before he can talk himself out of it.

He's not holding his breath as he hoists himself up on his kitchen counter, stocking feet smacking quietly against one of his lower cabinets as the phone rings in his ear.

And rings. And rings.

Did he dial it wrong? Was it a wrong number to begin with? There's heat in his cheeks as he exhales shakily, lowering his phone from his ear as it continues to ring. The voicemail should pick up at any moment.

“This was stupid, anyw—”

“Jacob Seed,” says Jacob's even voice as the phone finally picks up. A little out of breath, like he'd had to quickly cross a distance to answer the call.

“Oh, shit,” Pratt squeaks, nearly dropping his phone. His heels connect with the cabinets harder than he means to as he flies upright, spine straight and shoulders back, and the stinging smarts all the way up his calves, down the planes of his socked feet.

“Excuse me?” Jacob asks, laughing quietly. “Who is this?”

_fuck fuck fuck fuck_

“Uh. Hi. So, uh, you told me—”

“Deputy Pratt.”

It feels like someone's holding a heat gun up to his face, the apples of his cheeks warm like he's been smacked. He cradles his phone between his shoulder and his neck and anxiously rubs his hands against his thighs.

“Surprise?” Pratt says, willing his own voice not to squeak or crack. It warms him like burning that Jacob had connected his voice to his name so quickly. Without conscious thought, he squeezes his thighs around his hands, pressing against them soundly.

“That rhetorical? 'Cause honestly I kinda am.” Low and _warm_ , Jacob's voice in his ear has him squirming and licking his lips despite himself. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

_fuck me fuck me fuck me_

Pratt's gonna tear his hair out. He clamps down harder on his hands to keep them from moving to do just that, neck twinging as he presses his ear a little more against his phone.

“I mentioned that I was – that my basement, uh—”

“Jesus. Spit it out, Pratt,” Jacob huffs, amused.

Pratt bristles in the way only Jacob seems to make him, prickly and annoyed and so hot, the burn in his face traveling down the column of his throat, down his chest cavity and plummeting into his gut.

“Fuck you, okay.” Jacob laughs in his ear and Pratt shivers.

 _He's not interested but oh GOD I would do some suspect shit to have that laugh in my ear some more,_ Pratt laments.

“Problem. In my basement. I dunno exactly what—”

“Finished basement? Carpet, hardwood, cement?”

“You gonna let me finish any of these sentences, Seed?” Jacob laughs again, but falls silent. It's not an obedient silence, that's not something Pratt would ever describe Jacob as, but it's indulging, passive. “Finished basement, cement throughout. I think – I think a drain isn't working properly?”

When Pratt reaches the end of his sentence, it takes a second or two for Jacob to respond, like he's checking to make sure Pratt's actually finished. “Do you know what kind of setup you've got? Sump pump or a French drain?”

Pratt blinks, and then realizes Jacob can't see that as his answer. “Fuck if I know, Jacob.”

Even though Jacob couldn't see Pratt's deer in the headlights blinking, he can practically _feel_ Jacob's eye roll. “How much water, then?”

He can't shrug his shoulders well with his phone where it is, and Jacob can't see the motion anyway, so he settles for humming quietly. “I haven't been down there today, but it's usually like an inch or so? I haven't been home long, and—”

“Text me your address, Pratt. I'm just finishing up in the Valley, gimme like an hour to get to you.”

“What're your rates?” He doesn't want to assume that Jacob's going to do this for free or at a reduced price because Pratt didn't detain him earlier, but he _does_ kinda need to know.

The snort in his ears is answer enough, but as per usual Jacob presses on, dramatically adding on to it. “Won't charge you for the consultation or the labor, _Officer_ , but price is gonna vary depending on what the situation is. If you've got a pump that's dead or something wrong with a drain, if I've gotta replace a part, we'll see what we can do about the bill, huh?”

It sounds like a horribly cheesy porn line, like Pratt's strapped for cash and Jacob is alluding to trading his work for sex.

The blush is literally never going to leave his face, is it?

To distract himself, Pratt looks across the kitchen at the clock on his microwave, squints and reads the time on it as almost six o'clock. It'll be getting dark by the time Jacob gets here.

Before he can think better of it, Pratt says, “Have you had dinner yet?”

Silence.

Pratt would think he'd hung up if he couldn't make out Jacob's even, deep breathing. He squeezes hard on his thighs again and says, “It'll be dark, and unless you stop for food—”

“What're you thinkin', Pratt?” His voice is lower than usual, closer to a purr than anything else. Despite the deep breathing, he sounds a little winded, breathy.

_What ARE you thinking? Jesus Christ._

Pratt squirms and squirms. “Uh, whatever's fine. Least I can do is offer you beer and take out or pizza.”

“I'll eat anything. Text me your address, Pratt. See you in an hour.”

Jacob doesn't even give him a chance to say goodbye before he ends the call, not that Pratt needed or _wanted_ to, anyway.

When he removes his hands from between his legs to text Jacob, they're shaking a little. It makes it hard to type, his fingers fighting him, not cooperating and pressing buttons wrongly.

After a few minutes of fighting his fingers and his phone's keypad, he's sent his text. His hands still shake.

Pratt hops down from atop his counter and shoves them and his phone into his pockets so he doesn't have to think about it.


	3. Chapter 3

One of the worst things about Hope County is that there's next to no shopping district. They've got Mom n Pop stores, gas stations and huge convenience chains, but the nearest Walmart is in Polson and even that is a forty-five minute drive to the west.

Which means that buying things with discretion is hard to do unless you're willing to go for a drive. Buying liquor locally is one thing. The people who sell it to you frequently might think you have a bit of a problem, but it's just alcohol. Most people drink it. He and his friends just have a healthy appreciation for it.

Buying condoms and lube, however, that's not exactly something he can do at a Mom n Pop and not immediately burst into flames. Not that he needs to buy them now, because he doesn't. This thing with Jacob isn't actually a Thing, and besides he stocked up last month and still has plenty left over. Dryspell 'n all.

After putzing around his house for ten or so minutes, Pratt ends up back at the same Stop-n-Go he'd stopped at the day before. The parking lot is nearly empty, a beat up Honda in the side employee's lot and an even worse off pick-up parked at the pumps, its owner out of sight. As Pratt eases his car into the parking space directly before the store's entrance, he irrationally hopes the girl from yesterday isn't on shift again.

He enters at the same time a middle-aged man exits, mumbling to himself with a case of Yingling situated on the side of his beer gut. The pick up truck's owner, he assumes, watching him return to his vehicle. Guy keeps looking over his shoulder and muttering to himself, though he's too far away and it's too steadily growing dark for Pratt to make out any of the words.

He's proceeding down the nearest aisle into the store when he hears telltale gum popping, followed by gum rapidly, forcefully being chomped on. It could be anyone, but the universe hates him or something like that, so it _has_ to be the same girl. Eyebrow ring and cinnamon gum and thinly veiled disinterest tinged with judgment. Teenage girls always freaked him out, even when he himself was a teenager—they just seem so omnipotent, like after one good look from kohl lined eyes they could zero in on your biggest secrets.

He's at the beer display when another pop sounds, this time nearly behind him. In the reflection of the cool glass door before him he can see her, wavy blonde, shoulder length hair and slightly frazzled expression on her face. There's a thin piece of gum on her lower lip, blue this time instead of cinnamon red. Her bubble must not have popped cleanly, and for some stupid, petty reason it amuses him.

“Hey, Deputy. Back already?” she asks, body crouched as she stocks chips on one of the lower rungs of a display. Her eyes are back on her work but her head is tilted towards him, ear up and in his direction, waiting and listening.

“I guess I am,” he says, body still turned to the beer display. He doesn't know what kind Jacob likes, doesn't even know what kind _he_ likes if he's being honest. It all tastes like goat piss to him, bitter and thin and acidic. When he drinks it's typically hard liquor, something that'll pair with soda or juice. Something that tastes good and will fuck him up, not low proof ass-flavored wheat juice.

He only really drinks beer when he's in a mood or there's no other alternative. There's alcohol at home—a can of leftover beer from yesterday, a half bottle of Joey's favorite rum in his freezer from the last time he'd had her and Naomi over, a mostly full bottle of tequila atop his fridge, Fireball _somewhere_ in one of his lower cabinets, hidden away the last time he got truly drunk and had to cut a friend off—but he's not looking to get Jacob messy. He's still gotta drive home after, and it's not like he knows Jacob well enough to offer up his spare room if he imbibes too much.

Beer is one thing. It takes him a while to get truly wasted with beer, and though he figures Jacob's got to have a decent tolerance given his size and his general air, he doesn't plan on offering enough to get Jacob anywhere past comfortably buzzed. A few beers, safe to drive home. Firmly beneath the legal limit. It's supposed to be a friendly, _thanks for helping me with this, you're welcome for not arresting you_ type of thing, not a _hey let's get wasted and see if you get loose enough to let me blow you on my couch, you can fuck my face if you want_ situation.

More nerve wracking than the idea of having Jacob in his home is having Jacob in his home while they're _drinking_ drinking. Pratt's a touchy-feely drunk, always has been. He alcohol flushes, cheeks on fire and just as bright, and grins and wants to hold your hand, tell you he loves you. The fact that some people get angry when they drink always threw him for a loop. Alcohol makes him lovesick, makes him horny. Sometimes even weepy and maudlin, but that's only if someone harshes his buzz or if he was already in that state of mind to begin with.

Usually he just finds himself snuggled up between Joey and Naomi, watching obnoxious TV and eating entirely too much processed food, or in an attractive stranger's bed, their name escaping him as he attempts to vacate the premises without waking them. It's been a while since he's done the latter, though. Bedhopping is fun and all but it's not what he _wants_ anymore.

He's bought a house for Christ's sake, he kinda wants something More now. How to _acquire_ More is still proving frustratingly illusive, but he knows one night stands in unfamiliar cities isn't the way to achieve it. He wishes it were easier, like there was some form he could fill out so he could receive the perfect partner in three to six business days. Online dating is hit and miss, and even when he connects with a person it usually ends the same way bedhopping does: a brief yet passionate fling, over by the time the sun dips and rises again.

Finding and maintaining relationships in a small town is hard. Pratt doesn't really know how people do it. Most of the people he knows are already in relationships—Nick and Kim, Joey and Naomi, Jess and Grace, Pastor Jerome and Mary May, the former Mrs. Drubman and her boytoy Xander—and the others...well. He's not exactly chomping at the bit to shack up with Hurk Drubman, though he is pretty decent company when they're shitfaced.

He _could_ move, out to Helena or Missoula. Shit, even Polson is bigger than Hope County. But this is the town he knows, and all of the people (spare his mother) that he cares about are here. Plus, he's just bought a house. Kinda have to stick around Hope County.

Maybe he'll widen the scope online and give that another try? If he's got to travel a little to find someone, he'll do what he's gotta do. Maybe that way he'll stop thinking about Jacob God damn Seed all the time. Clear this issues up like it's a bad rash, leave it behind him like some burning fever dream.

“Hot date? Little get together?” Pratt's shoulders go taut, startled, and he flings the glass door open with more vigor than he intended, the suction-cupped display of beernuts on the front side wobbling precariously. Foil baggies rustling together as they settle. When he doesn't answer, she sighs softly. “Sorry, 'm bad at small talk. S'just that you don't look quite as miserable as last time.”

“S'okay,” he mumbles, warmed a little by her observation even if her delivery was a little crass. “Just getting beer as a thank you to my, uh, repair guy?” Trying to decide is a worthless endeavor, so he just goes with another six-pack of Coors. If Jacob hates it—Pratt doesn't know, doesn't _care_. It's just fucking beer.

She follows him to the check-out counter, slipping behind the divider to get to her scanner.

“Cigarettes, too?” she inquires as she rings the beer. Pratt thinks of the half-empty pack back at home and decides not to tempt fate by buying another pack so soon. Having more at his disposal will just make him smoke more, smoke faster, and really he's not interested in being an actual smoker again.

“Nah, not this time.” He hands her his license to scan so he can purchase the beer, the card ready between his finger before she even asks. His preparedness seems to frustrate her a little, a line forming between her eyebrows as she dutifully retrieves it and makes to enter its information.

It takes less than a minute to scan both his purchase and his ID, but the cashier lingers a little, her eyes flicking from Pratt's chest to the truck still by the pumps.

“You alright?” he asks, voice soft, suspicion curling in his gut.

“Could you, uh – I mean, could you hang around, Deputy?” When she tucks her hair behind her ear, her hand is shaking a little. Metallic blue-green nailpolish like a dogbane beetle's elytra catches his eye, chipped and messy. Her nails are bitten almost down to the quick, and a few of her fingers are scabbed bloody, their cuticles presumably bitten away. Without looking him in the eye, she inclines her head toward the store's entrance.

Beer gut with the shitty pick up is still outside at the pumps.

Suspicion confirmed. Pratt plants his feet a little wider and turns his body so he can watch the guy outside without being too noticeable. Middle-aged, Caucasian, brown hair. Average height and build, if a little heavier around the midsection. Pratt wants to say he's one of Kurt Welder's boys, old blood in the lumber circuit, but he couldn't say for certain which.

“Yeah, I got some time.” He smiles when she sighs her relief and thanks him, feeling a little bad that he had been so irritated only minutes before. “He give you trouble often?”

“No? No. Not—okay, a little?” She bites at her thumb, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Unlike Pratt, she's looking resolutely away from Pick Up Truck. “He don't come around all the time, but lately he's been getting' kinda...mouthy. Mostly harmless, but sometimes he starts drinking _before_ he comes around, and...”

“This place got cameras?” A nod. “Y'got a panic button?” Another. “Do you know the number for dispatch? Different from 911. You'll probably get Nancy if you call during the day. Just tell her what's up and that Pratt told you to call, and someone'll come out as soon as they can.”

It takes fifteen minutes for Pick Up Truck to leave. Pratt and the girl—Rachel, her nametag says—end up stocking the chip fixture and talking quietly while they wait for him to give up. She's older than he thought, almost twenty-two. Originally from the area, though she's just moved back from Helena. She doesn't mention why exactly, but after a split-second glance at the crook of her arm Pratt's pretty sure it's drug related. The delicate skin there is dotted with fading pink-silver track marks. He hopes she moved back to get clean.

She offers him a weak smile, her thanks, and a cube of blue raspberry gum before he leaves.

-

There's a big black truck parked in his driveway.

He hadn't thought he'd been gone that long, but between waiting with Rachel and the drives to and from the convenience store, close to an hour must have already passed.

Pratt parks behind his squad car and makes his way to his porch, the beer tucked beneath his arm. Sitting on his porch swing is Jacob Seed, long jean clad legs sprawled before him, crossed at the ankle. Bathed in shadows with the sun setting in the distance, adding new and strange definition to the scarring on his face. His expression is both constipated and amused, like Jacob's irritated at having been made to wait but not wholly bothered. Like Pratt's tardiness is just another facet of this pissy little game they play.

“Sorry 'bout the wait. You out here long?” Pratt asks. He doesn't make eye contact as he attempts to unlock his front door while carrying the six-pack and holding open the screen door with his hip, but he can feel Jacob's eyes on him, traveling up and down his profile. It warms him, pinkens his cheeks, each pass of Jacob's eyes on him bright and stinging like a welt, and Pratt's thankful it's so dark on his porch.

He just wishes he could get the God damn door open. His hands refuse to cooperate properly under all the scrutiny. The bubble he forcefully pops smacks loudly in the quiet.

“Got here faster than I thought,” Jacob mumbles, rising up to his full height. He's only got two or so inches on Pratt, but Pratt's aware of every centimeter as Jacob closes the distance between them. So close he can feel the heat Jacob always gives off, can smell the fresh sweat and drizzle on him, some traces of soap and possibly aftershave, faint like he'd applied it earlier in the day. He holds open the screen door and snorts as Pratt finally manages to insert his house key after another two tries. “That shitty beer for me?”

“You can drink water if you'd like. Or nothing,” Pratt says with an eye roll. He flicks on the lights as he goes, first the entryway, then the dining room, finally the kitchen. Jacob's on his heels the entire time, the toolbelt wrapped loosely around his waist jingling as he moves. “Figured you could assess the damage, gimme a timeline, and I could decide what to do about dinner from there.”

Jacob's leaning against the kitchen counter as Pratt dumps his keys on the counter, deposits the beer in the fridge. Arms crossed, expression amused. Handsome, smarmy, so fucking big—Pratt forcefully clears his thoughts. Blows a small bubble and pulls it back into his mouth to muffle the _pop!_

“Lead the way, Officer,” Jacob rumbles, sweeping one hand in front of him. Pratt meets his eyes for a moment before throwing himself back into action. He grabs two flashlights from his hallway closet and leads Jacob to his basement door.

As Pratt leads him down the stairs, carefully weaving them around the Sheriff's wet vac looming on one of the bottom stairs in the dark, he tells him what all he's already done. Cut off the power to the basement. Wet vac'd the floors twice already, an extension cord plugged into an outlet on the floor upstairs safely giving it power. Opened as many windows as he could for ventilation. Bought a dehumidifier for when he could resume power. Called his homeowner's insurance.

“What'd they say?” Jacob asks, the rubber soles of his work boots squeaking as he walks. There's even less water than before, surprisingly, at least in the main room. As they proceed towards what Pratt assumes is his drainage system, the amount increases until its centralized in one location near the far wall. It's damp and a little warm down here, but doesn't smell musky or mildewy, thankfully.

Pratt tells him. Gives him the quote estimate for possible repairs, the bump in his insurance should he file a claim. He rocks from his heels to the tip of his toes from behind Jacob as he crouches down beside the drain, flashlight tucked under his arm. Pratt shines the beam from his own flashlight over Jacob's shoulder, further illuminating a dark, water-filled hole. Distorted in the water sits a machine of some sort, something intended to rid the hole of water.

“That's fuckin' bullshit,” Jacob says angrily. He quickly rolls up his right sleeve and inserts his hand into the pool of water, feels around for a few moments. “Fuckin' vultures. Even if you hadn't pulled me over, I wouldn't charge anywhere _near_ that estimate. It looks like your sump pump is dying. With the power down here cut off it's running on a backup battery, but if you had standing water before you cut the power I'm sure the entire thing's gotta go. It's still draining but really fuckin' slow, hence the accumulation.”

He shakes the water off his arm as he pops back up like a demented, giant jack in the box. The beam from Jacob's flashlight is on Pratt's chest, Pratt's own on Jacob's. The dim lighting softens the ticked off snarl on his face, washes out the definition from his scars. It's weirdly intimate, in the dark and the damp alone with Jacob. His fury not at Pratt, but for him.

“Insurance companies are kinda like mechanics, I guess,” Pratt muses.

“Can't really fault someone for trying to make a buck, but $1000? That's robbery,” Jacob huffs.

With the flashlight, Pratt gestures towards the improperly working drain. “So do I just buy another sump-whatever?”

There's a mumbled sound from Jacob's throat that sounds suspiciously like _diva_. Before Pratt can address it, Jacob responds, “There's a hardware store out near the Market that has 'em for a reasonable price. Could probably get it cheaper at Lowe's or something, but—”

“All the way out in Polson, yeah. I'll just eat the difference if I can get this done quicker. Don't really use the basement all that much but I'd really like to avoid, y'know, _mold_ and shit.” They share an amused snort, eyes meeting. It takes an unnecessarily monumental effort not to fidget, to rub at his neck like he's some blushing fucking schoolgirl. “Tell me what I need and I'll go get it? Can you install it tonight?”

Jacob adjusts his toolbelt and begins towards the stairs without further ado.

“Easier if we go together. Can't buy the wrong shit if I literally show you what to get,” he says as they begin their ascent up the stairs. Jacob's broad shoulders are shrouded in the light pouring down from the open door leading upstairs, his back and lower half still bathed in darkness. Even so, Pratt can see hips swinging minutely, the muscles in his ass shifting up and down as he proceeds upward, pleasantly outlined in worn blue jeans.

He's like a big cat, graceful limbs and banked strength. A lion, maybe. Or a wolf. Snarling, teeth bared. Big paws and calculating eyes and that powerful air he exudes.

He tries hard not to watch the movement, he swears. But there's nowhere else to put his eyes, and Jacob does have a nice, muscular back. Strong thighs, thick but trim waist. His ass isn't half bad, either.

“Plus, y'really don't want me alone in your house, Pratt, less you got all your secrets hidden,” he teases.

“You're a _snooper_? Who'd'a thought,” Pratt says back. He heads into the kitchen for his keys when Jacob clicks his tongue from the entryway, a loud, childish _tsk tsk tsk_. “If you think you're driving—”

“Don't get your panties in a wad, Officer,” Jacob smirks, spinning his keys leisurely around his index finger. A truck fob, a house key, and a couple of other random brass and silver ones. No keychains. Pratt hates how much he finds that smugness attractive. Wants to smash their mouths together, suck on that rebellious tongue. “I'll obey traffic laws if I _have_ to.”

-

He doesn't. Seems to purposefully break as many as he can with Pratt in the cab.

Pratt spends half of the usually twenty minute trip to Scottie's Hardware and More gripping the oh shit bar in Jacob's truck and pressing imaginary breaks. He tells Jacob to slow down, to use his fucking turn signals, Christ, but it just seems to egg him on more. Grinning and nearly cackling as they barrel through a stop sign at an empty fourway intersection.

“I should've _arrested you_ , holy shit,” Pratt hisses. He's exhilarated despite himself, his heart pounding in his chest, his mouth aching from forcing his smile down. The expression on his face as a result is probably strange, the corners of his mouth lifting for a moment only to be summarily smushed down. Forehead knotted but eyes bright.

“But you didn't,” Jacob nearly singsongs. They're clearly not doing the speed limit posted on the sign they just blew past, bouncing merrily over a pothole in the road.

If they get pulled over, Pratt's ass is _grass_.

As if reading Pratt's mind, he asks, “Are there even any cops on duty right now? Didn't you say half the precinct is out sick?”

“Doesn't matter if there's less cops out than usual,” Pratt reprimands. “The laws are laws for a reason, Jacob.”

They've only been in the car for ten or so minutes and he can already see Scottie's in the distance, the store's namesake lit up in neon white and yellow lights with a huge wrench leaned against it.

“Gotta get your basement fixed in a hurry though, right, Pratt? Time is of the essence.” He drags it out, _ess-ence._ Emphasis on the s's and the c's, hissing like a snake.

“We get into an accident at the speed you're going—”

“There's no one out here, chill out Deputy Do-Good.” They're still going a little too fast even as they ease into a parking spot. Pratt bounces forward and is yanked back by his seatbelt, yolked up around his throat. His cheeks burn in indignation as Jacob laughs and laughs, throwing the truck into park.

“I regret this immensely,” Pratt tells him.

The laughter quietly ebbs away. It's too quiet in the cab, just their breathing and the tinkling of the truck's engine beginning to settle. He looks at Jacob's face as discretely as he can, finds Jacob unabashedly looking at him, body turned towards him. Pink lower lip caught between his teeth, blue eyes nearly glowing as they flit across Pratt's face. Bathed in the too harsh neon glow of Scottie's annoying sign.

The burn in his face shifts from indignation to something else, a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance and arousal. Warm and wriggly and weird in his gut, hot cold hot cold flashing in his veins. A complicated cocktail of emotion pumping through him, all of his strings plucked one after the other by Jacob's clever, clever fingers.

“No you don't,” Jacob says. His tone is dead even, assured of the rightness of his statement. Like he's telling the time, or a universal fact. _No you don't_ , like there was never any doubt in his mind that Pratt was enjoying their antagonistic little games, was enjoying their time together.

There's a moment there that Pratt thinks he's leaning across the divider to kiss him. He even holds his breath after he licks his lips in preparation, heartened by the fact that Jacob openly watches the slow drag of his tongue as it travels across his lower lip.

He doesn't, though. Just leans in to unbuckle his belt and remove his keys from the ignition.

“C'mon, Pratt,” he rumbles, voice lower than it usually is. Raspy, husky almost. Scratchy like he's been fighting back words.

Pratt suppresses his shiver to the best of his abilities, his heart racing in his chest, and follows Jacob out into the night air.

-

The sump pump they come away with costs just under $188 with tax. Jacob says he could probably get away with a less expensive, lower tech one, but he's used this brand in the past and hasn't had any troubles before. He seems pleased when Pratt goes with his suggestion without a word, chest almost puffed out.

Pratt's too busy thinking about what had happened in the truck. Repeatedly he gazes out Scottie's glass front windows at the monstrous black truck parked peacefully out front. He imagines he can see them both sitting inside, looking at each other. Jacob closing the distance between them to press warm lips against Pratt's own. The taste of Pratt's fading blue raspberry gum passing from his mouth to Jacob's.

Blue stained tongue against a soft, wet pink one. Jacob's teeth in his lower lip, sharp and bright and good.

He's _positive_ that's what nearly happened, felt the tingle of Jacob's gaze on his lips as he watched Pratt's tongue glide along. He's not sure what to do with this information, that Jacob might not be as straight as he assumed. That Jacob might be _interested,_ even.

This new development has him quiet, cerebral, following Jacob around the store. Internally analyzing all of their previous encounters, treating what had almost happened in the cab as a litmus test. He'd always chalked Jacob's flirting up as just another tactic, a mind game to enact maximum chaos, but had it always just been flirting?

 _You let him pull your pigtails because you want to fuuck him_.

Does Jacob pull his pigtails because _he_ wants to fuck him?

He lets Jacob teach him random fact after random fact, clearly in his element, pleased that he can boast and teach something he clearly understands so well. The thoughts rushing through his head prevent him from absorbing most of the information, but he's sure if he asked Jacob would go over it all again in excruciating detail.

They situate its box in the crew cab of Jacob's truck. There's a dehumidifer sitting in the floorboard, and an expensive looking wet vac tucked neatly on the other side of the bench seat. Pratt eyes them and then Jacob, who simply shrugs before hiking himself up into the driver's seat.

“Didn't know if you had them already,” he says casually, buckling himself up. “Y'can borrow my dehumidifier until things dry up down there. When I come pick it up I'll make sure the sump pump is still working correctly.”

Implying he'll be by later, after this all clears up. Pratt nearly hums, no longer fighting his smile.

He teases the right amount at Jacob's driving, much too fast as per usual, to keep up their little game of back and forth. But instead of attempting to covertly watch him, stealing glances here and there, over the ten minutes or so it takes them to return to Pratt's house he brazenly studies Jacob's profile.

Jacob meets his eyes once at a stoplight and huffs at him.

Thick auburn hair buzzed on the sides, swooped messily to the right, curling almost. Recently shaved down by the looks of it, the rest of his skull blanketed in the barest dusting of red. The majority of his beard and mustache are a touch darker than the hair on his head, though there are streaks of strawberry blonde and the occasional gray-silver hidden among all that red. They catch in the light of passing cars and street lamps.

The scarring across his face is more extensive than he had originally thought. He can only see the right side of Jacob's face clearly, but it extends up out of his beard and towards his hairline. Faded and silvered with age, it looks somehow both delicate and resilient.

Pratt wants to know what it feels like beneath his palms. Between his thighs.

It prevents some of his beard from coming in, the scarring having warped his pores. He's a little surprised Jacob can grow as much of a beard as he can, thick and healthy and full in most places except for the very top of his cheeks.

He wonders what Jacob would look like without the beard. Wonders if Jacob even knows anymore. The Seeds have been in town for a short while now and Pratt's never seen him with any less facial hair than right now. Is there more scarring along his chin, his jawline? He's got a few spots on his neck that Pratt can see, scarred a little darker than those on his cheeks, but for the most part the skin looks healthy, undamaged.

The marks on his forearm look different from the ones on his face. Shinier, like they're more recent. Pratt watches the muscles in his forearm move as Jacob easily manipulates the steering wheel. He wonders if they bother Jacob. Some of them look nearly raw in places, like a rough brush against a wall or another person could rip them open, encourage them to bleed.

When they reach his driveway, Jacob throws the truck in park and flies out and around it before Pratt's even opened his door. Leaning against the ajar back passenger's door, Jacob looks him slowly, leisurely, up and then down.

“It's rude to stare, Deputy,” he teases. The corner of his mustache twitches when Jacob's smile grows, sharpening.

“You would know,” Pratt returns, an eyebrow cocked. Challenge and interest in his posture, in the way he licks his lips again.

A heartbeat, two, Jacob's eyes on his face, searching. With a long, drawn out exhale, Jacob retrieves the sump pump and hoists it easily beneath one arm.

“We'll come back for the rest,” he rumbles, gesturing towards the house.

Jacob hounds his steps the entire way, never more than a step behind Pratt. His stride is longer than Pratt's own, easily eating up the distance Pratt playfully attempts to put between them by picking up his speed. They nearly collide at his front door, Jacob a little too close, but he catches himself before they impact with a huff. Pratt can practically feel Jacob's eyes rolling as he unlocks his front door, much easier than the first time around.

They retrieve the flashlights and return to the basement, Pratt behind Jacob. He shines his light wherever he thinks Jacob needs it most, leaning against the wall and listening as Jacob gets to work. He explains what the purpose of a sump pump is, what its mechanics are. The sheer amount of information being shared is kind of a turn on, Jacob's intelligence and skill on display like a male bird's plumage, flashy and colorful. Some of the more technical stuff is way beyond Pratt's paygrade, the casual physics of it all Jacob throws in, but it sounds smart. Pratt's always liked smart.

Disappointingly it doesn't take him long to remove the old pump and replace it with a new one. Jacob seems almost disappointed at his own efficiency. Eyes the new pump as its backup battery kicks in and immediately begins gurgling to life, steadily sucking up the accumulated water.

“Give it about an hour or so to do its job before we wet vac,” Jacob says, still crouched before Pratt.

“Time for dinner, I guess,” Pratt hums. “You weren't very forthright about what you wanted to eat—not that you ever are forthright—so last chance, Jacob. Any preferences? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Jacob's gaze is hot on his face in the dim, eyes a radioactive blue, piercing and pinning. He's almost waiting for Jacob to say _I'd prefer to eat you_ or something else equally as cheesy, some bad porn line like before.

Instead he says, slowly enunciating each and every word, “I'll eat anything you put in front of me.”

It's not textbook porno, but the subtle innuendo is still there. Jacob crouched low, his eyes burning into Pratt. Pink tongue swiping slowly across his bottom lip. Licking his chops.

Pratt hums again, toes curling in his boots, and heads for the stairs without a word. Second later, Jacob's behind him again. His boots slap wetly against the concrete floor.

Pizza is easiest, mindless and cheap. The place he calls is one of his favorites, one that knows he and Joey well enough to have his address already memorized. He can feel Jacob's eyes on him again as he talks to the owner's daughter, gives her his order. She's sweet on him but entirely too young, but Jacob doesn't know that. He flirts with her a little to see if Jacob will react.

If there's an aggressive way to open a fridge and retrieve two cans of beer, Jacob's perfected it. He pops both tabs and drains a decent portion of one before saddling up to Pratt's side and pressing the other into his free hand. The unnecessary curling of Pratt's fingers around the can, the unnecessary _contact_ , has Pratt shifting his weight from foot to foot, his voice dropping a little.

He can feel this thing between them spiraling faster and faster, coiling like a spring primed to pop. A short lit fuse steadily burning burning burning, working up to the big _boom!_ The fact that he was so blind to Jacob's reciprocation smarts a little—how _long_ has Jacob reciprocated? God, could they have been having sex for a while now?—but they can make up for lost time, Pratt's sure of it.

As much as he's teasing and flirting now, Pratt still wants Jacob to be the initiator. Wants Jacob to press him up against his own counter, or a wall, or the cab of Jacob's truck. Wants Jacob to check that last little box in the checklist of reciprocity.

Likes the thought of big bad Jacob fucking Seed caving first, dispelling any lingering doubts in Pratt's mind.

“Give it like forty minutes. We're a ways from the restaurant, even if Tweak _does_ drive like you,” Pratt says after the call's disconnected. He discards his flavorless blue gum before taking a long pull of his beer. It's cold and welcome in his suddenly dry mouth, even if it does still taste like goat piss, lightly flavored with blue rhaspberry. “We could watch T—no we can't.”

“No?” Jacob laughs.

He gestures vaguely towards the living room. “TV out there died. Haven't gotten around to buying a new one. Only other TVs are in—uh, my room and the guest room.”

“Those not work either, Pratt?” Jacob says quietly, closer than he was a second ago. He's a long line of warmth down Pratt's left side, encouraging him to stay pressed back into the counter. There are goosebumps on Pratt's arms, creeping up his neck. He doesn't try to mask the hitch in his breathing, and in a flurry of motion Jacob is flush against him, warm thighs pressing his own back into the unforgiving countertop.

“What _ever_ will we do until the food arrives?” Jacob whispers feverishly, his mouth centimeters from Pratt's. So close Pratt can taste his words, feel the dispelled air rumble against his skin. “What _ever_ will we do?”

Pratt sets his beer down calm as you please, watches Jacob wordlessly follow suit. Lets their chests rise and fall against one another. Breathes in the air Jacob exhales.

“You drive me fucking crazy, y'know that, huh?” Jacob hisses. Crowding in closer, as if there's any space between them left to cross. To make room for Jacob's bulk, Pratt uses his arms to hoist himself onto the counter top, careful not to knee or elbow Jacob in the process.

When his thighs fall apart and accept Jacob's waist between them, Jacob moans like he's wounded. Low and guttural and in his throat, his hands gripping firmly at the meat of Pratt's thighs. The callouses on his hands scratch against the denim of his jeans as his palms drag upward and out to rest on his hips, fingertips skirting beneath the tail of Pratt's flannel. Nails biting into the soft parts of him, deep and anchoring. Ensnared.

His skin's on fire, feels like his blood's been replaced with something molten.

“Yeah?” Pratt breathes raggedly as he snakes his legs high around Jacob's calves, encouraging him still closer. Fitting their crotches together, huffing out a shaky breath at the unmistakable heat of Jacob's groin pressed tight against him. Feels something else pressed against him, but it's not Jacob's erection, not yet at least. Just his toolbelt, hanging loose around his hips.

With hands steadier than they should be with how his head is swimming, Pratt unclips it from around the trunk of Jacob's body and sets it carefully on the counter beside them, near their beers.

“Can't fucking stand it,” Jacob mutters, swallowing hard. Words practically pressed into Pratt's mouth, little offerings.

“Then don't,” Pratt urges. “Then _do_ —”

One of Jacob's hands flies into his hair, cradling the back of his skull to press their mouths together, while the other grips his hips and _pulls_ him forward, until he's barely seated on the counter. Pratt sucks on Jacob's tongue and wraps his legs around Jacob's waist, crossing them tightly, locking Jacob in place.

Not like there was anywhere else for him to go, that he'd rather be. Jacob kisses like he wants to devour him, aggressive presses of his mouth to Pratt's. Sucks his lower lip between his own and then bites sharply, the sting then quickly salved by the wicked press of Jacob's tongue

The hand on his hip quickly slips around his back and up his shirt. It drags deliciously down his spine, presses the small of his back forward, encouraging Pratt's hips to roll. Pratt moans helplessly at the drag of hardening flesh against hardening flesh, the vibrations against Jacob's tongue and mouth pulling one out of him as well.

Pratt breaks their kiss to catch his breath, chest heaving. There's another wounded, almost animalistic sound from Jacob as he makes his way from Pratt's lips to his chin to his throat, with lips and tongue and teeth.

“Wanna – wanna watch some TV?” Pratt asks, breathless.

The mouth against his skin stills. “You fuckin' serious, Pratt?”

“Y'know. Watch TV. In my bedroom. With a bed.”

Slowly, Jacob pulls away. He eyes Pratt for a second before snorting and slowly, so slowly, smiling with nearly all of his teeth. Baring them, really. Sharp and white and straight. Pratt knows how they taste now but he's not nearly familiar enough.

“Fucking _crazy_ ,” Jacob hisses again. The reverence in his words pairs strangely with his tone, but Pratt doesn't have time to contemplate it before he's being manhandled down from his perch. “Lead the way, Officer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVER JUST BEEN SO MOVED BY THE SPIRIT OF ANTAGONISTIC ASSHOLES THAT YOU UPDATE FUCKIN' AGAIN????
> 
> flubbed with rachel's age timeline, but the stop-n-go rachel is very much rachel jessop. :-)
> 
> all i actually know about sump pumps i've learned from google and from the brief help i gave my father and soon-to-be brother-in-law a few weeks back when my sister's basement flooded. if it's wrong or out of sorts, iiii'm sorry. call an actual handyman, don't look @ me lmao


	4. Chapter 4

It's gonna take them a long time to get upstairs and horizontal if they don't stop touching each other.

They get to the doorway of the kitchen leading into the living room before they have to stop for the first time, Jacob's strong, steady hands easing him against the framework. Rough wood biting unpleasantly into his back, but it's worth it. He'll endure it to have Jacob's bulk pressed against him, nose to toe.

His hands are massive, practically baseball mitts, touching so much of Pratt at once. Fingers splayed to feel every part of him that he can, Jacob's thumb dipping beneath the band of Pratt's jeans to rest in the hollow of his hipbone, his pinky wrapped high, curling around Pratt's back. The other shifting up, up, up under his shirt to drag his thumbnail over Pratt's nipple, scratch _draaag_ of stinging heat flashing through him. Too blue eyes on Pratt's exposed abs as they contract and quiver at the sensation, hungrily drinking in the response, cataloging.

They've barely moved six feet from their original location, but Pratt is helpless to deny Jacob entrance to his mouth, to deny Jacob's free reign to roam. To grope and squeeze and caress as much of him as he can reach. He _laughs_ , quietly between aggressive, closed-mouth kisses, shoulders shaking and lips tingling. Punch drunk and so turned on his head's spinning.

He knows if Jacob hadn't been the one to stop them first, he probably would've a heartbeat or two later. The knowledge that Jacob is so wound up, so into him that he'd rather makeout like teenagers in Pratt's kitchen for a few moments longer instead of just getting the show on the road makes him shiver. Eyes half lidded, dark ruddy blush splashed across his cheeks. Desire sings through him like electricity, has him moving his hips into Jacob's without conscious thought. His hands in Jacob's back pockets, squeezing his ass and keeping him pressed tight, a wall of responsive, sculpted heat for him to rut against.

He wonders if he'd actually been electrocuted. If he'd failed to turn off the power to his basement before they'd descended and he'd been shocked upon contact with the water. It would explain the jittering in his fingers, the restless, bright energy coursing through his veins. Maybe he's dreaming this, his zapped out brain giving him something good, something hot, before he finally gives out.

With great reluctance he pulls his hands from Jacob's pockets and pushes against Jacob's chest. He watches Jacob stumble a step or two back from him before he steadies. The slick shine on Jacob's lips is obscene, nearly makes him just say fuck it and pull Jacob back in, but he's got a mission.

They've got to get upstairs.

“ _Bed_ ,” he growls, indicating the stairwell.

Then they're moving again, this time making it to the back of Pratt's couch before he's cursing beneath his breath and pulling Jacob back into him. Detour it is. He pulls too forcefully and nearly topples backward, unable to support the full brunt of Jacob's weight when the bulk of it is pressed as tightly against him as it is.

Jacob scoops him up to sit on the back of the couch like he's nothing, like he's just another fucking sump pump Jacob's gotta carry inside and install. Effortless, inconsequential. So fucking strong. He wants, needs to see Jacob truly in action, be the recipient of all of that strength.

God, have Jacob fuck him so hard he's got to repair the wall behind his bed when they're finished. Maybe even the fucking headboard itself. Jacob in nothing but his toolbelt and that irritatingly attractive smug smirk of his, fixing the damage he wrought while Pratt looks on, preparing to undo all of his hard work.

The sounds leaving Pratt's mouth would be embarrassing if he weren't so keyed up, trembling and whiny and so, so needy. Jacob shushing him with kisses, sweet and wet and deep.

He pulls away for a moment, his lips tingling against Pratt's, and says, “Sh, sh. Gonna take care of you, Peaches. Gonna give you what you need.”

It's not something he'd let Jacob call him in the light of day, but with Jacob's dick hardening against Pratt's own, with the heat between them threatening to melt his brain—he'll be fuckin' Peaches.

He'll be whatever the fuck Jacob needs him to be.

“Want you _in me_ ,” Pratt whimpers when they break apart for air again. His thoughts feel scrambled with desire, images beginning to form in his head only to boil and sizzle away under Jacob's touch.

There's so much of Jacob he wants to touch, his shoulders, his hips, his chest, his _dick_ , but he doesn't have enough hands. He settles for letting them flutter aimlessly across the expanse of Jacob's back as he crushes their mouths back together, nails dragging across the cotton fiber of Jacob's gray henley. The sound Jacob lets out is punched out and breathy, almost pained.

Then his hand travels up and around to Jacob's jaw, where he turns Jacob's head a little, gives their kisses a slightly better angle. Shudders as he's rewarded with Jacob's tongue petting heavily against his own, hands squeezing deeply on his hips.

Suddenly no longer seated, Pratt has a split second to panic that he's actually falling backward before he registers Jacob's hands under his ass, holding up his weight. Without being asked he wraps his legs securely around Jacob's waist and his arms around his neck, shimmying in close so his bulk is easier to maneuver.

He's not a small man, not some fucking waifish twink you can count the ribs on, but Jacob makes him feel small. Not quite delicate, but more fragile than ever before. Keenly aware that while he's probably faster than Jacob, more agile, Jacob's got brute strength on his side and isn't afraid to use it indiscriminately.

He's always liked big men. His taste in women waxes and wanes, changes with the seasons, but with men it's always been about their size. Long legs and big hands and arms like cages. Dick size is nice, dick size is important even when he's assuring his partner he's fine, he's good, he's got a beautiful dick, more than enough to play with even if there's little _wow_ factor, but he can deal with average or even below if the rest of the package is to his liking.

The problem is finding a big guy who's interested in being rough but not actually hurting him. There's a difference between wanting to be manhandled, tossed around a little, and actually legitimately smacked around and literally degraded. He's wound up in a few BDSM clubs before, looking to sate his appetite, but it's not pain that he wants.

He _did_ take away some interesting ideas with bindings, though.

Jacob's not even the biggest guy he's ever been with, but they're not even naked yet and Jacob's throwing his weight around, moving Pratt to and fro like a doll. Most of the other guys wouldn't do more than play at holding him down, but as Jacob begins ascending the stairs with Pratt spidermonkeyed around him, he figures he'd probably only have to ask Jacob once to be a little rougher before he rose to the challenge.

He wants to fight and rage against Jacob, knows Jacob'll just absorb it all, encourage him. Laugh in his fucking face before flipping him over to fuck him, put him back in his place. And then afterwards, sweaty and sated and sore, Jacob wouldn't look at him any different. Call him a prissy, demanding bitch and ask where the pizza is.

God, he hopes Jacob doesn't treat him differently after this. He enjoys the antagonism as much as the rewards he's reaping now, even if it drives him fucking nuts. The thought of not having it, of pulling Jacob over the next time and Jacob's just all smug, knowing smirks, not even keeping up appearances because he's already gotten what he wanted—

“Hey. Hey,” Jacob says, lowering Pratt gingerly onto the top landing of the steps. His knees are on the topmost step, Pratt's legs still locked tight around him. He kisses Pratt's cheekbone, nudges his nose with Jacob's own and then nips at his lower lip. “Went dead there for a second, felt like I was carrying a fuckin' corpse.”

They're less than twenty feet away from his bedroom door. He's on his back on the fucking floor. The lip of the steps bites into his calves where they're wrapped around Jacob, but he doesn't say anything. Knows the finished wood must be a bitch on Jacob's knees, too.

Pratt's laughing again, shoulders shaking against Jacob's chest. Thumping quietly against the hardwood. Unable to stop it, he lets it pour out of him as Jacob watches on, holding himself up with his arms, expression fond. Like this is a normal thing that happens to him, his partners going into gigglefits during slight internal crises during pre-sex acts.

His arms are still draped around Jacob's neck loosely. He extracts one gingerly to swipe at his eyes, his shoulders slowly stilling, his laughter fading away.

“If you treat me different after you fuck me, I _will_ put sugar in your gas tank and slit your tires,” he says with a grin, spitting venom to shield the soft bits of his fears. Probably looks crazed, his hair sweaty and fucked out from Jacob's hands being in it, his lips kiss swollen and pupils dilated.

“Aw, Peaches. Baby. C'mon—”

“Ugh, don't call me that,” Pratt gripes, but he knows Jacob can see a new flush rising in his cheeks at the pet names. Feels warm, calm, good, even with his doubts swimming in his gut, pressed beneath Jacob as slowly, slowly those sharp white teeth are exposed again.

“ _Peaches_ ,” Jacob hisses, right against Pratt's lips as he shudders. Cajoling and familiar territory. Their faces are so close together Pratt's eyes are starting to cross, icy blue eyes and silver-pink scars and sharp auburn brows blending together oddly. He won't blink, won't look away until Jacob does. His heart's thundering in his chest as Jacob studies him intently.

“Gonna treat you like I always do, like you're a bitchy little brat,” Jacob says, voice low and gravelly, stroking Pratt's flank as he speaks. Counterpoints, harsh and sweet. “Just gonna know what you look like when I make you come so hard you see stars, huh, Peaches? That what you wanna hear?”

“Yeah,” Pratt whispers, leaning up to nibble Jacob's lip. Begins rolling his hips upward again, even with the uncomfortable floor and the step digging into his back and legs. The arousal and quiet relief keep the twinges of discomfort from lingering.

He's paying attention this time, so being hoisted back into the air isn't a surprise. The lift and carry is a little slower, like all of the heavy lifting is catching up with Jacob.

Pratt sweetly kisses the side of his mouth and says, “Getting to be too much, old man? I'm a big boy, I can walk. Don't want you tiring out before I get what I want.”

The taunting seems to steel Jacob's resolve, which is _thrilling._ Pratt's jostled upward, forcefully re-situated.

“Insolent little shit,” Jacob mumbles, “which door is yours so I can fuck you obedient?”

“You got all night?” Gestures towards the far right corner and holds on as Jacob makes towards it. He begins unwinding his legs when Jacob struggles with the knob, unable to twist it fully and brace Pratt's weight, but Jacob snarls at him to _stay right fucking there_.

After another attempt or two, the door finally swings inward. Jacob wastes no time crossing the distance between the entry and the bed. The mattress protests quietly when Pratt's summarily deposited on it.

“C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,” Pratt chants, scooting back towards his headboard. They've both still got all of their clothes on and it needs to be rectified _now_ , so Pratt feverishly yanks off his button-up and kicks his shoes. He throws them all aimlessly to the side. Nothing crashes or breaks, and even if it had, well.

That would've been a problem for post-orgasm Pratt.

The clicking of Jacob's belt and the _ziiiiip_ of his jeans has Pratt's skin tingling, saliva flooding his mouth. He watches Jacob's thumbs hook in the waistband of both the jeans and his boxer briefs and begin to lower both before an idea slithers into his head, unwilling to be ignored.

“Don't – don't take them off,” Pratt says suddenly.

“I'm not going to fuck you in my jeans, Pratt,” Jacob deadpans, but he stops all the same. The V of his hips exposed in the dim, Pratt takes a second to enjoy the new skin bared to him. Pale and freckled and dusted with red hair, Pratt quickly eyes as much of Jacob's happy trail as he can with Jacob's shirt and jeans still on.

“No, not your jeans, asshole. Take those off. I wanna – wanna take off the rest myself.” He moves forward to the edge of the bed on his knees, then sits on his legs and waits for Jacob to comply.

Not that Jacob seems eager to immediately give him what he wants. Jacob snorts and shifts forward so they're touching again, but doesn't move to push his jeans down. In fact, he removes both hands from his waistband entirely and instead weaves one into the hair on the back of Pratt's head, fingers lightly scratching and rubbing against Pratt's scalp.

“Well, go 'head then, Peaches.” His voice is a low taunting rumble, throaty and thick like molasses.

Excitement and arousal cause his hands to shake minutely. Once they come in contact with Jacob's hips they still. He holds Jacob's gaze as he first slowly encourages Jacob's jeans to fall, revealing black boxer briefs. The clasp of Jacob's belt clicks against his hardwood floor as Pratt leans forward and presses his face high up on Jacob's groin. He can feel the heat coming off Jacob in waves as he rubs his face against Jacob's midsection like a cat, humming appreciatively when Jacob groans and rucks up his shirt with his free hand so Pratt has more access to skin.

“Killin' me,” he breathes, almost absently, watching Pratt's dark head move against his clothed cock.

“Been thinking about your dick for _months_ now, Jacob,” Pratt tells him. He drags his hands down Jacob's thighs and then back up as he speaks, pressing hot, open mouth kisses to the ridge of his erection through the dark fabric. “What it's looks like. Smells like, tastes like.” He shudders wantonly when Jacob's grip on his hair tightens, pressing him a little harder against the trunk of Jacob's body. “Feels like in me.”

“Gonna show you all that 'n more,” Jacob says. He rolls his hips lightly against Pratt's questing mouth, hissing through his teeth at the wet drag of lips near the head.

Even still clothed, Pratt can tell he was right in assuming Jacob's got a pretty big dick. He wants to tease, wants to drag this out and make Jacob lose his mind with lust, but frankly he wants this too much to really, truly take his time with it. The fabric of Jacob's briefs whispers down his thighs as Pratt slowly, slowly lowers it. Slow as Pratt's going, Jacob's fat cock still bounces soundly back against his stomach, pressing briefly, wetly against Pratt's jaw.

Beautiful, God. Pratt's a bit of a size queen and Jacob, well. Jacob's got a beautiful dick. Blood dark and heavily veined, springing forth from a bed of bright red curls. He smells clean and musky and _heavenly_.

He kisses around the base, petting Jacob's skin as he goes. Intentionally touching everywhere but where they both want his mouth to go. As thankful as he is that Jacob let him open him up like a Christmas present, he's hoping Jacob'll get tired of his—

“Keep teasing, Peaches, and I'll just flip you over and fuck you face pressed into the mattress, huh.” The hand in his hair encourages Pratt's head back a little. It's a good, tight feeling, just shy of painful. He watches Jacob's free hand slither down between them and encircle the base of his cock.

“Promise?” Pratt asks. He licks his lips and watches Jacob lead his cock forward. His preejaculate is salty and warm against his lips as Jacob rubs his cockhead against them, smearing it across Pratt's mouth like lipstick. He flicks out his tongue to lap at Jacob's slit as it passes, feels his own cock twitch with excitement as Jacob groans and presses his cockhead more firmly against Pratt's lips.

“Open,” he orders, fingers tightening in Pratt's hair again. When Pratt complies, Jacob slips himself inside wet, warm heat as far as he can go. “There it is, there we go, Peaches.”

Pratt sucks hard at the nickname, turned on and pissed off by how much he likes it. Tongue traveling tightly around Jacob's shaft as his head begins bobbing up and down.

“Such a pretty fucking mouth, baby, wrapped around my dick. Knew all it'd take to get you quiet is a mouthful.” It's more than a mouthful. Pratt's stupidly proud of his dick sucking abilities, but Jacob is larger than average.

 _God_ and it's gonna go in his ass next, gonna fuck him so deep.

He uses his hand to stroke what his mouth can't reach, stroking in counterpoint to the movements of his tongue. With his other hand, he rolls Jacob's balls, tugging on them lightly. The room is full of the messy, eager sounds his mouth makes as he sucks and swallows. It'd be embarrassing without Jacob groaning like he is, deep in his throat, head tilted back. Fingers flex release flex release against Pratt's skull.

Pratt's just managed to open his throat and take Jacob in deeper when Jacob is cursing and pulling out. He can't help himself from whining, complaining petulantly about the loss of musk and weight in his mouth. Trails after it until Jacob's hand slips from his hair to his shoulder to stop him.

“Take off the rest of your clothes and lay down facing the headboard, Pratt.” Jacob's shucking the rest of his clothes as he gives the order, toeing off his boots so he can climb out of the pool of his jeans and briefs.

The scarring on Jacob's chest is more like the scarring on his face than his forearms. Silvery and faded with age, spidering across the surprising definition of his chest and abdominals through swathes of red chest hair. They're worse on his right side, like he caught most of the fire's wrath there. Peppered in among the burns are what look like old blade slashes and a long-healed bullet wound, puckered and circular. Combat wounds? Bar fights? Jesus, Jacob's kind of a mess.

There are more scars on his shoulders, ones that wrap around and go down his back. They look different than the others, scarred up thick and dusky pink. He's too far away from them to really get a good look at them, but they look like the tips of old lashings, thin and tapered.

“Go on,” Jacob says quietly. His face is hard to read, the heat in his gaze tempered by something else, something that threatens to snuff it all out.

Pratt swallows hard and quickly makes himself strip off the rest of his clothes. With another glance at Jacob he moves up the bed and lays down, his head turned on the pillow to keep Jacob in sight.

“Lube?”

“In the drawer. Condoms, too.” He's still turned on, cock rigid and full against his abdomen as he unconsciously shifts his hips against the mattress, but they've taken a wrong turn somewhere. Lead down a dark path by Jacob's scars, the stories behind these newly discovered ones probably somehow sadder and more warped than the one explaining his facial burns.

Pratt can feel his heart pounding slowly, thud. Thud. Thud. Emotion curling around it he refuses to name, doesn't want to even _think_ that it's pity or anything else foolishly damning. He wishes he were on his back so he could see Jacob, kiss him, touch him aimlessly, reassuringly, but knows he probably needs a little distance to get them back somewhere even close to where they were.

Before climbing onto the bed, Jacob retrieves the necessary items from Pratt's bedside table, tosses them carefully on the sheets near Pratt's arm. The bed dips a few seconds before his legs are urged further apart, and then Jacob is pressing kisses into Pratt's shoulders, his lowerback, down down down. Unmarked spare the beauty marks dotting up and down the length of him irregularly. Jacob nips at them, rubs his face against Pratt's skin, humming as goosebumps form.

Pratt moans lowly as Jacob kneads his cheeks in both hands, pulling the globes apart to expose his hole only to push them back together, squeezing. He does that a few times as he kisses down Pratt's spine, Pratt getting more and more restless and breathy the longer Jacob goes on. Right before Pratt's about to beg him to do something, _anything_ more, his cheeks are spread apart further than before and then Jacob's tongue is against him.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but the breath's shocked out of him anyway. He fights to keep his legs from squirming as Jacob licks wetly at him, circling around the rim before pressing the tip of his tongue lightly against Pratt's center. He does it a few times, hot wet pointed pressure against his entrance, before Jacob actually puts any force behind the press of his tongue. By that time, Pratt's biting his lip to hell to keep from making a fool of himself. He can't keep it all down, his enjoyment and pleasure refusing to be silenced completely. Not with the way Jacob is unabashedly beginning to eat him out, sloppy and wet and hungry.

“Jacob,” Pratt moans, pushing his hips back a little. Several quick little jabs of Jacob's tongue into him, each one deeper than the previous, are his reward. The breath's punched out of Pratt, has his head floaty and overwhelmed. He presses his face into his pillow and works his hips again.

The girth of Jacob's tongue is joined, presumably by a finger. Pratt doesn't move his head to look, just lets Jacob work him like he's another one of Jacob's jobs. Expert, confident hands and that smart, wicked mouth. He gets his finger in to the first digit with little resistance, still moving his mouth wetly over Pratt's hole.

There's the quiet _snk_ of the lube being opened seconds before some is carefully drizzled along his crack. Jacob kisses at the dimples in the small of Pratt's back as he works his finger all the way in, pressing and shifting and massaging. Soon after he inserts another, slipping easily inside.

“Jacob,” Pratt moans again, “please. Please, please, please.” He begins to gather his legs beneath him for leverage, can feel Jacob pump his fingers in and out of his body even as Jacob himself shifts around to accommodate the change in position.

“Want it?” Jacob asks, lips pressed against Pratt's spine.

“Give it to me, Jacob, please.” Arousal courses through him, scorching through his veins. The third finger slides inside him alongside the others, burning quietly, fully, deliciously. He moans and rocks his hips back onto Jacob's fingers, loving the stretch but wishing it were more.

The extra attention and lube is probably for the best. Jacob's got a lot to take and Pratt firmly intends on taking it all. By the time Jacob deems him ready for it, Pratt is muffling his pleading into his forearm, rolling his sweaty, too warm face against the sheets for a shred of relief. He's empty for just a few moments, long enough for Jacob to sheath himself in latex and add a touch more lubricant, but it feels like it stretches on for longer, for ages. Empty and eager, waiting to be filled. Desperate for it, for Jacob.

Then one of Jacob's hands is urging Pratt's hips even further up while the other guides his cock inside, slowly sinking into wet heat. Jacob pressed all along his back, heavy and sweat-slick and warm, kissing at his neck as he begins thrusting. Pressing all the way in, knocking the air out of Pratt to make room for himself, and then pulling most of the way out, hollowing him. He's clenching, whining, demanding Jacob stay within him.

“You're so fucking tight,” Jacob hisses in his ear, picking up the tempo, ratcheting up the heat between them to somewhere near where it had been before.

“Fuck, fuck – you've got a big dick,” Pratt sobs.

“You love it,” Jacob tells him. The hand that had lifted Pratt's hips shifts across Pratt's lower stomach, his forearm a hot brand against his abs. He uses it to anchor his thrusts, to keep Pratt right where he wants. Uses it to lift him up, pull him back. Manhandling his lower half.

“Uh huh. Fuck, uh huh.” Getting his arms beneath him, Pratt lifts his upper half and braces his weight on his arms. The extra height has Jacob sinking home even deeper, and the extra leverage from his arms lets him rock back harder.

Jacob's free hand snakes around them to pinch at his nipples. The pressure of his grip and the stinging burn of his nails dragging across the erect flesh has him squirming, corkscrewing his hips back onto Jacob's cock.

“Take it so pretty,” Jacob whispers. He moves his arm across Pratt's chest, securing it around him like the other around his waist, and then heaves him upright, pressed flush against him. He repeats himself in Pratt's ear, grinning as the new angle frustrates and delights Pratt. Sitting up and back on Jacob's cock has him hilted root to tip, but he's got no leverage like this to push and roll of his own volition, fully at the mercy of Jacob's hips and arms. Forced to find purchase on Jacob's neck, his hip, and hold on as Jacob fucks him.

“Gonna let me give it to you? Gonna let me fuck you until you can't stand it anymore?”

Pratt's so full he can't think of anything else. Jacob's all around him, arms tight and restrictive, his mouth right against Pratt's ear. Just Jacob, only Jacob, his brain processing no other feedback as Jacob begins thrusting again, not the wet squelch of their bodies, the slap of Jacob's sac against his ass, the knocking at the door and Pratt's name being called.

Wait – what?

Pratt struggles for a moment to resurface and _think_ before powerful hips thrust forward roughly, pushing Pratt up in the air, dragging him back down. Knocking the thought clear out of his head, letting him think of nothing but the delicious drag of cockhead against his walls. His mouth's opened but no sounds are coming out. Jacob presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, huffing his own breath against Pratt's skin.

“Another way to get you quiet?” Jacob says as Pratt clenches his fingers tighter into where they're holding on for dear life. “Just gonna have to fuck you more often, that it? Fuck you over the hood of your own squad car? Out in the open – fuck – broad daylight, where anyone could see.”

Pratt clenches hard around Jacob. Heat's building up in his stomach, threatening to eat him alive. He shimmies down onto Jacob as best he can and clenches again, ripping a groan from Jacob's throat.

“Jacob, God. Make me come, make me come.” Blessedly Jacob drops an arm and immediately fists his cock. His hand is still damp with lube, and it eases the passage of Jacob's hand up and down Pratt's shaft. It's so much, almost too much, Jacob huge inside him and the tight circle of his fist perfect to fuck up into.

“Let 'em know how good you feel,” Jacob urges, pumping his hand faster. His hips are moving erratically, growing closer to completion. “C'mon, Peaches.”

Everything goes white and quiet.

Pratt comes back to himself in pieces. His vision clears first, but all he can hear is the rushing of blood in his ears. Jacob's still fucking up into him, chasing his own release, bouncing Pratt into the air. He knows he should help him, is still clinging awkwardly to him, but his limbs are so loose and warm he doesn't think he has the strength to do so. Jacob keeps nudging against his prostate on each thrust and the overstimulation sends zings of pleasure-pain shooting through his body. He's helpless to do anything but take it, ride it out. Clench around Jacob as his own cock twitches pitifully.

“Fuuuuck, there it is. Fuck.” The sound of Jacob's voice and the scratch of Jacob's beard against his throat are the first sounds to come back to him. He hums loosely and flutters around Jacob's cock, milking him through his orgasm. There's a hiss against the column of his throat, Jacob's teeth pressed against the side of his Adam's Apple.

When Jacob finishes, he slowly guides himself out and then urges Pratt back down onto the bed on his side, tucked into Jacob's chest as he, too, lays down. He nonchalantly removes the condom, ties it, and throws it somewhere into Pratt's room. It slaps wetly on the floor when it connects.

“That's so gross,” Pratt laughs, “hope you step on it, y'bastard.”

“Mm, coming back online sooner than I thought. Gonna have to try again, I suppose,” Jacob mumbles to himself. He reaches around Pratt and makes like he's going to insert fingers, laughing deep in his chest when Pratt gripes and moves his hips away.

Pratt's about to call him a bastard again when there's another series of loud knocks, followed by a _Uuh...Deputy Pratt? You...you finished?_

“Fuck – fuck. Is that Tweak? Oh God.” Mortification sends blood rushing back into his face so quickly it makes him a little light headed. Had Tweak heard them? God, there's no way he _couldn't,_ not with the way Pratt was letting himself wail.

“How long – how long has he been knocking?”

“Good while,” Jacob deadpans.

“Oh, God. I'm never – fuck, oh God.”

“Chill out. Kid's a burn out, no one'll believe him even if he doestell everyone you moan like a whore.”

Pratt gives him the stink eye as he clamors to his feet. He almost puts on his jeans without his boxer-briefs but then thinks better about trying to wash straight lube out of his jeans. It takes him a few moments to _find_ his underwear—fucking stupid of pre-orgasm him to throw shit willy nilly, should've dropped his clothes at the side of the bed like Jacob—but eventually he's got everything but his shoes, socks, and belt back on.

He's heading for the door when he steps on something slick and damp and nearly falls.

“Oh my fucking—God dammit, Jacob. Throw that away and come downstairs,” Pratt hisses, nudging the used condom away with his foot. His steps are a little slower now, worried that the lubricant residue on his left foot will send him plummeting to his death if he runs to Tweak like his heart in his throat tells him to.

He can hear Jacob's laughter ringing down the stairs as he stomps into the kitchen to grab his wallet.

Sitting on the ledge of his porch in the dark is Tweak. Pratt can see him clear through the screen door and wants to _die—_ God, none of the doors were closed, and they were never _quiet_.

Before he's even opened the door, Pratt shakily grabs $30 out of his wallet.

Tweak startles a little when the door flies open. In the moonlight, his eyes flutter everywhere on Pratt but avoid his face. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, cheeks bright red even in the darkness.

“H-Hey, Deputy Pratt,” Tweak says, voice unnaturally high.

“Tweak, I'm—just take the money and go. Keep the change, I'm—I'm sorry,” Pratt mumbles awkwardly, money extended outward. He doesn't look at Tweak's face either.

Awkwardly they do their exchange.

Pizza for money.

Extra tip for silence.

Lack of eye contact for plausible deniability.

He's in the clear until Tweak's at the driver's side of his car, pulling out his keys.

“Congrats on the bangin' orgasm though, Deputy Pratt. Tell—tell whoever they did a good job?” His face contorts strangely as he speaks, like the words are leaving him without his express permission. He doesn't take them back, though, just waves awkwardly and gets into his car. Drives back into the night with Pratt holding a lukewarm pizza in his hands and his jaw on the floor.

By the time Pratt shambles back into the house, Jacob is in the kitchen dressed similarly to Pratt: all of his clothes sans his footwear.

“See you didn't burst into flames,” Jacob teases. He takes the pizza from Pratt's hands and flips the lid back.

“He, uh,” Pratt mumbles.

“Hm?” The first slice drags cheese everywhere as Jacob pulls it into the air. He chews at the train of it following behind his slice before beginning on the pizza proper.

“He says you did a good job.” As Jacob chokes a little on his mouthful, Pratt laughs hysterically until his vision blurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DICK O'CLOCK™ Y'ALL
> 
> i'm so!!! tickled that y'all are enjoying this. i'm so incredibly humbled by the responses i'm getting. i don't reply to many comments (though there are definitely times where i cannot control myself and HAVE to say something) because i don't like what it does to my comment count, but know that when i get each and every comment notification email i literally die inside and Ascend. feel free to inbox/chat at me on [tumblr](https://boneforts.tumblr.com), though. maybe we could chat discord, too!!
> 
> i know where i'm going with this, but as with "darkness" i dunno how long it's gonna take me? god i hope not 100k but fmlkdmflkasf also!! let's play a game called "guess which j/s sex acts i'm REALLY into" lmao
> 
> also jsy('all)k, never slit all four tires if you're gonna do that shit, insurance will p readily cover all four but dispute three ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Chapter 5

When Jacob stops choking and Pratt has wiped away the last of his laughter tears, they eat their dinner in a companionable silence. Pratt steals looks at Jacob when he can, taking in the long curved line of his spine as Jacob eats over the open box even after Pratt offers him a plate. Observing his big hands, one tucked beneath his third God damn slice of pizza—seriously, where does he _put it all_?—while the other lay splayed wide on the counter top.

Sky blue eyes, devastatingly blue, the type seldom found in nature outside bottomless depths and frozen wastelands, on his face catching him each and every time.

By the third time Jacob catches him, Pratt's blush response has lessened. Not died, the heat in his face is warm and comforting and ever present, but lessened. A dull roar instead of a head rush, no chance for the sudden surge of blood to make him lightheaded because it never left his face in the first place.

Jacob doesn't seem to mind his openly wandering eyes. He finishes his last bite, quickly downs the rest of the water he'd requested when Pratt had asked if he wanted a drink, and crosses the sparse distance between them. Beneath the scent of garlic and tomato sauce, Pratt can make out the unmistakable musk of their sex clinging to Jacob's skin.

Right before Jacob kisses him, he takes a deep breath of it. Holds it in his mouth, rolls it around on his tongue.

“I remember being in my twenties,” Jacob tells him conversationally when they part. The gentle brush of his fingers through Pratt's hair clashes with the lecherous grin on his face, splitting his face wide. All teeth, white and bright like bone. Pratt can feel Jacob's other hand lazily walking down his chest, one finger after the other, but can't look away from Jacob's _mouth._ “Could get it back up in no time.”

Then there's a warm hand cupping him through his jeans. His body moves before he gives it the command to, instinctively widening his stance so Jacob can touch as much of him as possible. The warmth and pressure of his grip is nice, has his breathing shallower and the still present flush in his cheeks spreading down, down his chest, but now that Pratt knows what that hand feels like striping his dick this through the clothes shit won't work.

“There we go, would'ya look at that?” Jacob marvels, voice thick and proud as he continues to encourage him back to hardness.

“What about you?” Breath hitching in his throat when Jacob digs his palm in and rubs forcefully over the head of his cock. “You get it up again this soon, huh, Jacob? Awfully far from your twenties now. Got your Viagra with you?”

The snort that earns him is quickly followed by a nip to his jawline, the hand in his hair tightening, yanking his head back to better expose his throat. Rabbit-quick beat of his throbbing pulse just inches from Jacob's pink lips, his bone-white teeth.

“You're such a little shit, Pratt. Want me to tear that ass apart again, that it? Didn't get enough of it the first time? All you gotta do is ask, Peaches.”

“Don't _call_ me that,” Pratt seethes. Any actual bite in his words is dulled, muzzled, when Jacob sucks hard high on his throat. Warm, wet suction and the quick, deep sting of those huge teeth. He _keens_ , knees weak. Reaches fitfully for Jacob's chest to steady himself.

“Not – not so high up, Jesus, Jacob,” he says, though he makes no move to pull himself away. Actually pushes harder into Jacob's mouth, swallowing hard as Jacob continues his ministrations as if he'd never said anything at all.

Satisfied with his hickey, Jacob leans back to observe his handiwork. It's too high up Pratt's neck to be covered by the collar of his deputy button-up, but Jacob knew that when he went in for the kill. Likes the idea of everyone being able to see his mark even if they don't know it was he who put it there.

“Don't you worry your pretty little head, _Peaches_ ,” Jacob coos. He squeezes his hand hard around Pratt's dick and _grins_. “You're gonna have a front row seat to the encore. Gonna shut you up good and proper this time. Make you scream so loud your neighbors hear and report a disturbance.”

“Oh God,” Pratt whines. The thought doesn't terrify him like it should, if anything it makes him harder. Proximity to Jacob has always fucked with his brain, all of the blood rushing to his dick and leaving none to correctly fuel any other organ in his body. Right and wrong get muddied, his wires all frayed and crossed. The higher Jacob sends his blood pressure, the harder his dick gets.

When Pratt regains enough of his wits to press flush against Jacob and kiss him like he's starving for it, he can feel the beginnings of an erection pressing against him. Not nearly as formed as his own, but it'll get there.

Pratt'll get him there, has to. Use his mouth and hands and ass to achieve that goal.

“I – I'll walk upstairs this time. Let you focus on, uh, better developing that for me. Wouldn't want you to fuck up your back going all Neanderthal again.” Recycling the same material is okay because his brain is sex-fried. He doesn't have the same bottomless well of depravity Jacob can tap into when he's balls deep in someone. Doesn't know how he does it, really, how he can formulate such filthy statements while fucking Pratt for all he's worth.

The comment does what it's supposed to, used before or not. Jacob slowly releases both grips on Pratt's person and casually gestures towards the kitchen entryway.

Genial smile on his face, mismatched with the fire burning in his eyes. “Well, go on 'en. Lemme get my walker and I'll meet you there, you little brat.”

Making his way towards the stairs with careful backward steps, Pratt asks, “Gonna give me a hard candy after to suck on, huh, Jacob?”

“Gonna give you somethin', alright.”

-

Neither of them intend for Jacob to sleep there, it's just that after they've finished and the sweat on their bodies is cooling, aided by the spring breeze rolling in through the open window, they settle in to bitch-commentate on late night television and it just _happens_.

One minute, Pratt is laughing himself hoarse, avoiding Jacob's pinchy, crab-claw fingers as he makes Conan O'Brien comparisons—“Tall, ginger, annoying as _fuck_ ”—and the next he's waking up curled on his side, arm stretched over the now-cool expanse of mattress that he'd last seen Jacob in.

He might not've intended to have Jacob stay over, but waking up without him there does weird, fuzzy things to his heart as Pratt wills the sleep out of his eyes. Shakes his head a few times until he's dizzy with it, like he can clear the fog of sleep from his head by turning into a human etch-a-sketch.

There are no clothes on the floor besides his own, no shoes. No lazily discarded knotted condom from either coupling.

A glance at his bedside clock tells him it's 4:31AM. They'd fallen asleep sometime after eleven o'clock. The TV's still on, the volume up loud enough that Pratt cringes away from the infomercial playing, wondering how the hell he slept through that.

Didn't even wake him, didn't say goodbye. Kept the sound of his movements quieter than the TV and escaped out into the wee hours of the morning.

They're not boyfriends or anything, Pratt's not stupid. One night of fucking does not a relationship make. For how they get along like a house full of explosives on fire, pulling each other's pigtails until it comes to violent crashes of their mouths instead of fists, Pratt's not even sure if Jacob actually _likes_ him, or if he just wants to fuck him. Which is fine, he's not looking for a boyfriend, either, expect for how he kinda stupidly is.

Jacob Seed as his boyfriend, though? Not only is there the age difference, wide and cavernous between them like the decades separating their births, but he knows next to nothing about Jacob Seed that one couldn't learn from his arrest record or from bedding him once.

He's handsome, he's annoying, he drives too fucking fast and doesn't care, he's got a big, fucking fantastic dick—but what's his relationship with his parents? How does he tip when he's out at restaurants? Is he religious like his brother? Is he _out_ to anyone, or is this a downlow situation? How'd he fucking _get_ all those scars?

They fuck beautifully, but Pratt's not deluded enough to think it's enough to grant him access to who Jacob Seed really is, his secrets and goals and weird fucking quirks locked away inside his own personal Fort Knox.

They might not even sleep together again. Maybe Jacob got it out of his system, a one (or two) and done. Maybe they'll still bicker and banter at each other, but Jacob's drank his fill and intends to find greener pastures. He's never seen Jacob with a steady girlfriend before, certainly no man out there on his arm.

Is this how his faceless bedpartners in Bozeman and Helena and Missoula felt after he slipped out in the night? Groggy and weirdly bereft, stomach churning like they're on a boat on choppy waters? Not quite seasick, just keenly aware that there's no steady, solid ground beneath their feet.

Pratt's brain is still too fuzzy to process this. He sits up in bed and throws his legs over the side, but makes it no further than that. It takes him a couple of minutes and the heels of his palms digging into his stinging, exhausted eyes before he works up the energy to get up and shamble downstairs.

His body hurts, aches. Lovebites on his neck and beardburn on his inner thighs. Keenly aware of where Jacob had been, and where he currently isn't.

If Jacob's left, Pratt needs to throw the deadbolt behind him. Rural Montana or not, Sheriff's deputy or not, people still break into houses all the time. They've got a bit of a meth problem in the surrounding area, and no one gets desperate like an addict looking for their next fix.

Jacob could've thrown the knob's lock from the inside and pulled it shut behind him, but it's easy to pick one of those things. Even easier to bash it open, clean out of the socket in the door frame.

Better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to get axe-murdered on his actual day off.

Being out of the bed, being on his feet now that he knows Jacob's gone helps. He hopes that by getting himself up and occupied, the busy work will push all thoughts of Jacob to the back of his mind. That the trek from his room to the front door and back coupled with the weird, off-key sadness in his throat will allow him to fall back asleep quickly.

The rest of his house is dark, save for two spots. He and Jacob hadn't turned on many lights after they'd returned from Scottie's, but the few that they had turned on—the kitchen light, the light at the base of the stairs—are still going. Irritation prickles in his stomach, and Pratt latches onto it. Better to focus on that than on his other stupid fucking dimwitted emotions.

The lock on his doorknob isn't even thrown. They'd locked it before they'd headed upstairs the second time, Pratt haunted by the memory of nothing but a little distance and wire mesh separating Jacob and him fucking from Tweak on the porch.

Had Jacob not even bothered to do _that_ when he left? Guy's an asshole, not an Asshole. Or so Pratt thought. Pratt always remembered to turn off forgotten lights and lock doors behind him, at least.

It stings, Pratt's indignant rage the only thing keeping it from actually hurting. Trying his hardest not to think about it, Pratt quickly locks his door and makes to turn off the two forgotten, wasteful lights.

Three. Light faintly shines under the basement door.

That one's all wrong. They'd left the sump pump running on backup batteries. He hadn't even turned the power back on to the basement. The light coming out into the darkness is too yellow-warm to be from Pratt's flashlight, the disperse of the glow too wide. Besides, they'd brought all of those upstairs.

Pratt gets closer to the door and notices a quiet rumbling. He hadn't been able to hear it over the TV, hadn't noticed it when he'd stomped down the stairs, firmly in his head, but now he can hear it.

Is Jacob in his basement wet vac'ing?

The hope that washes through him isn't tentative, isn't slow. Crashes like a wave.

 _Could still be a murderer with a weird thing for vacuuming?_ Pratt thinks, but even that is almost giddy.

Opening the door confirms it, has the sound of the wet vac wafting up the stairs. Pratt has to descend down them half way to see Jacob, but there he is in the corner of the room diligently working away at four in the fucking morning. Using the wet vac he'd brought along instead of the Sheriff's sitting at the foot of the stairs, tucked safely out of the way. No longer a stupid tripping hazard.

Both dehumidifiers are running as he works.

Jacob must've went outside to grab his stuff. Didn't bother locking the door behind him because he's still inside. He wouldn't have heard Pratt getting murdered in his sleep over the vacuum or the upstairs TV, but it's all a much nicer, warmer thought than him just...leaving.

He's gotten a decent amount done already. Pratt sits down and watches him work, still out of view. Arms around his calves and head turned on the tops of his knees. Stupid, utterly foolish emotions swirling in his stomach.

Jacob doesn't see him and Pratt doesn't draw his attention, content to just watch him work. He documents the muscles shifting beneath Jacob's henley as he goes, the way the muscles in his forearms contract and release as he steadily directs the hose.

Stupid, so stupid. Glad Jacob's still there, even if they're no more than antagonistic friends with benefits.

He has no idea how much time has passed when Jacob stops to dump out the water accumulation. His shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to the small of his back in a handful of places. Pratt watches him drag the vacuum towards the half bath tucked near Pratt's laundry room where the sump pump is. Hears him grunt and then the thunderous rush of water being overturned.

When Jacob returns to the room, he stretches his arms high above his head and yawns hugely. Even from the steps Pratt can see he looks as exhausted as Pratt feels. There are swathes of purple beneath his eyes that Pratt can just make out. He wonders if they make his eyes look lighter or darker.

Jacob's not looking for him, just casting his eyes around, so he startles a little when he spies Pratt. Nothing in his hands to drop or squeeze around, but they clench and unclench at his side almost anxiously.

They don't speak. Pratt holds his gaze for what feels like ages before he climbs to his feet and descends down the stairs. The concrete is still damp, icy cold beneath Pratt's bare feet, but not unbearable. Still in silence, Pratt makes sure the Sheriff's wet vac is still plugged into its extension cord before cutting it on.

-

Jacob leaves close to six. The basement is as dry as it's gonna for the time being, and he has clients to see as early as eight. Pratt's foolish heart wants to tell him to stay, to catch a cat nap and shower here before he sets off for work, but manages to wrangle it silent and keep his mouth shut.

The one liner he thinks up to send Jacob off is sufficiently prickly but lackluster compared to his usual repertoire. At least it's free of empty promises and ill-formed romantic notions.

He doesn't kiss Jacob goodbye, doesn't cant up to taste that exhaustion-softened smirk. Doesn't touch him at all. Jacob doesn't move to touch him, either.

Pratt's not sure who's following who's lead, if he's following what he believes is Jacob's or if Jacob is taking his cues from Pratt. It's too much to think of with his eyes burning from exhaustion, with his back pleasantly worked from his time in the basement, with lube still slick-warm and tacky between his cheeks.

“I'll be back later for the dehumidifier,” Jacob rasps in the doorway, smelling of black coffee and mint. Still wearing the jagged little smirk he'd gifted Pratt for his half-assed sendoff. The toolbelt back around his waist clinks and clanks as he readjusts his weight, shifting his wet vac up in his arms, and with one final look he heads for his truck.

He doesn't look over his shoulders like in the movies, doesn't turn around and jog back to steal a kiss before he goes. The truck rumbles to life after he secures his equipment. He spares Pratt a look right before he begins backing up, but he's too far away to discern anything from his gaze. Too much separates them—Pratt's yard and the windshield and the uncertainty of this Thing now between them in the slowly breaking light of day.

Then he's gone. Pratt's driveway back to two, his house back to one.

He goes back inside and returns to bed, avoiding where it most smells like Jacob.

-

Three days go by without seeing hide nor hair of Jacob. No calls, no texts. No black trucks screaming by him or blowing through red lights. Nothing.

The Sheriff's Department is mostly back to full census. Some of the staff still look a little wan and pale, but more desks are full than not. Light duty all around, but it's Hope County—most of the duty is light.

It's still nice to have more hands on deck, even if the Probie is in the corner talking to Whitehorse, long arms gesticulating between them as he talks. Animatedly regaling the Sheriff with how he _didn't_ have to pull over Jacob Seed.

“It's like he's a pod person!” McKenna says shrilly. His blonde curls are damp from the ever-present April rain, the collar of his brown deputy's button-up dotted with pinpricks of darker brown. “Just—just slowed down at the yellow light and actually _stopped_. Stayed put the entire light.”

“So he was obeying traffic laws, and you, what? Want him to keep on breaking them?” Sheriff asks, amused. He's perched on the corner of Nancy's desk, looking over his shoulder to share a smile with her.

“It's just not the Jacob Seed I know! Do you think his brother's cult brainwashed him?”

“It's not a cult,” Nancy huffs, feathers ruffled. “Father Joseph preaches beautifully, y'know.”

“Yeah, I'll take your word for it.” McKenna throws himself down into his desk chair, the force of his descent casting his chair backward. He connects soundly with the lip of his desk but doesn't even flinch, just jostles in his seat before continuing. “I'd just like for things to be _normal_ again. After spending like – three days feeling like shit? I emerge from my cocoon of Gatorade and chicken noodle soup to nothing tasting or smelling right. Jacob Seed driving like a _normal fuckin' human being_? And Pratt—he hasn't said a single mean thing to me all day!”

“There's still time,” Nancy says sagely. “Maybe he's coming down with what everyone else had? He _did_ kinda run himself ragged with everyone out.”

As a unit, the three of them look over at Pratt, who's just managed to avert his eyes seconds before. His hickies have already begun to fade, but he self-consciously tugs at his own collar. It's futile, the damn marks were too high to cover, but it gives him something to do with his hands.

Truth is, he's not sure how he feels about Jacob's absence, about how everyone but him has seen him driving around town like a law abiding citizen. Pratt doesn't prowl around for him, doesn't search him out, but he's keenly aware of each and every black truck that comes anywhere near him, and none of them are Jacob's.

Is Jacob _avoiding_ him?

He'd said he'd be back later, but that's so fucking vague Pratt doesn't know what to do with it. Is later a day? A week? A month? Some other nebulous passage of time? They hadn't interacted with each other super regularly before The Plantain Incident, but he'd _seen_ Jacob around.

But now there's nothing.

They're not boyfriends, he tells himself that over and over. There is nothing concrete between them but animosity and sexual tension. He can't even say if it's unresolved, since they've already slept together.

Mostly resolved? Fully resolved?

Jacob doesn't _owe_ him anything. They'd both gotten what they wanted. Unfortunately for Staci God damn dumbass Pratt, he ended up wanting more than was readily offered.

-

After four days with no word from Jacob, Pratt calls it a wash. He runs Jacob's dehumidifier until he no longer needs to run both his and Jacob's, and then he quietly and neatly packs up Jacob's and hefts it up the stairs. It's sitting across the room from Pratt's lazy, sprawled perch on his couch, tucked quietly into the alcove next to the front door.

Ready for Jacob to come pick it up, quick and painless. Barely two steps into the house.

The TV down here is still broken, so Pratt entertains himself with mindless Facebook scrolling and texting Hudson. When she takes too long to answer—they're driving back from California now and it's Naomi's turn to drive, she should seriously be answering him back so much faster than this—he flips over to Candy Crush.

When he runs out of lives in Candy Crush, Pratt considers pulling up Grindr.

The app doesn't do much for him here in Hope County. He's not closeted, but it's hard being both bisexual and a cop in a small town without having to viscerally fight for your dignity at every turn. Before Jacob, it'd been a while since he'd had a fling with a man locally. Most of the time he ventures out, heads to one of the handful of “big” cities in Montana that have a wider selection of queer men.

Ones who don't know he's a cop, ones who didn't go to school with him, ones who've never met his fucking mother in passing.

Ones who'll hold his hand in public, keep close even when people give them looks.

He's got tomorrow off, but it's the middle of the week. The clubs would probably be next to empty, and it's entirely too late to drive over an hour to get some dick.

Not to mention that he doesn't _want_ nameless dick. He wants fully named dick. Dick that stays the night and blows him in the morning before Pratt makes them both breakfast. Dick that texts him regularly and remembers his birthday.

He opens a dating app instead. The net cast is significantly wider than that of Grindr, showcasing men and women in Polson and Fairfield and Missoula. Hell, even as far away Helena.

_Interested in MEN AND WOMEN WITHIN 150 MILES, AGES 23-30._

Quietly and without thinking about it, Pratt expands the age range to 49.

He starts flipping through suggested profiles, but nitpicks through them all. This one has a weird smile, that one has no apparent ambition. This one's got three kids already, and while he likes children he's not ready to pony up and be someone's stepdad.

Next. Entirely too into their farm.

“FarmersOnly.com, dude,” Pratt advises, “got a fuckin' commercial and everything.”

Next. Not attractive enough to be as cocky as they come off.

Next. Just a single photo of their abs.

“Go back to Grindr,” Pratt mumbles, pressing on.

Next. Looks too much like Hudson.

Next. Looks too much like Whitehorse, God.

Next. Intimidatingly successful.

Next. Wrong shade of ginger.

After a few more frustrating minutes of profile surfing, Pratt throws his phone into the armchair and decides to make himself dinner. He'll let the suitors come to him.

As soon as he steps foot in the kitchen, Pratt can hear his phone buzzing.

“Fuckin' Hudson,” he says to himself. If she can make him wait, he can make her wait, so he presses on. There's not a terrible amount of food in his pantry at the moment, shopping been put to the wayside with how short staffed the Station has been. He's got half of the necessary ingredients to make a lot of different things, but nothing to make a full cohesive meal.

He settles on grilled cheese and soup while ignoring another round of buzzing. Once he finishes making it, he'll take his shit upstairs and call Hudson. They'll put each other on speakerphone and he'll eat as he boots up his console.

But the phone keeps buzzing. And buzzing. And buzzing.

The soup's on low and his skillet's steadily heating, the separate pieces of his soon-to-be grilled cheese patiently waiting to be assembled and cooked.

Patient unlike Hudson, who doesn't seem to like a taste of her own medicine.

The phone's still intermittently buzzing after Pratt butters the outer sides of his sandwich and sets it in the center of the pan. Again when he circles his whisk through the soup so it cooks evenly and without burning the bottom.

Giving up, Pratt goes to retrieve his phone.

 **Joey 9:46pm  
** _All of the ebola monkeys at the station are better now right? Not coming back to town to get the plague._

 **Joey 9:47pm  
** _Seriously if I get sick I'm going to kill everyone_

 **Joey 9:47pm  
** _E v e r y o n e_

 **Joey 9:48pm  
** _Gross, pretty sure we just passed someone getting road head._

 **(Unknown) 9:49pm  
** _Pratt_

Jacob. Pratt licks his lips and sits heavily on the arm of his recliner. After Jacob had left, Pratt had wrestled with saving his number as a contact, but had finally decided against it after the second day of radio silence.

He's kind of embarrassed he recognizes the number a quickly as he does, but there's no one there to see the color slowly fill his cheeks.

 **Joey 9:50pm  
** _Anyway. We still on for tomorrow?_

 **Joey 9:52pm  
** _ANSWER ME ASSHOLE_

 **Joey 9:53pm  
** _Your mom sent some food along btw. She says hi and that you need to call more. :-|_

 **Joey 9:53pm  
** _Keep playing Staci I WILL eat this food._

 **(Unknown) 9:55pm  
** _You home? In the area and could drop by_

Is he home? Is he even going to reply?

Before he can stop himself, he's texting back.

 **Pratt 9:57PM  
** _i'm home. you hungry? i'm making dinner._

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Pratt huffs, staring at his text bubble beneath Jacob's. Jacob's probably just looking to scoop up his property and there he goes, inviting him over for dinner. For fucking grilled cheese, Jesus Christ.

 **Pratt 9:57PM  
** _just grilled cheese but uh it's food??_

Double texting. Jacob's not even in the _room_ and he's making an ass of himself. He hopes Jacob says no just as much as he hopes Jacob says yes. Mopping after Jacob comes and goes is gonna suck, but he can still call Hudson and decompress with her and Naomi.

If Jacob takes him up on his offer—

 **(Unknown) 9:59PM  
** _Eta 5_

Yes? No? God dammit, Jacob.

And five minutes? Was he gonna just _show up_?

Pratt flies off the arm of the recliner and throws his porch light on for Jacob. He considers moving the dehumidifier and then immediately disregards it. If Jacob's only here to pick it up then Pratt might as well leave it where it is, quick and painless.

Even if he does kinda wanna move it back downstairs. Make Jacob pass all of the places where they kissed and touched each other.

He finishes cooking his food while he waits. One side of his sandwich is burnt but not terribly. Still edible. At least the soup hasn't scorched. Slightly burnt bread is a million times more palatable than burnt soup.

Does he eat before Jacob gets here? If Jacob wants food, then it's rude. If not, then it'd be rude to be eating while his guest isn't—even if his guest is Jacob.

He's thinking entirely too much about this. Assigning weight and meaning where there's none. They had sex twice and that's it. No other texts or phone calls.

It's not that serious.

A bite into half of his sandwich and there's a knock at the door. Nervously Pratt wipes his hands on his pants, uncaring of the greasy butter that's probably being smeared up his sides.

In the soft white glow of the overhead porch light, Jacob looks tired. Bags under his eyes, olive green t-shirt splattered with dark oil. Hair mused and the side of his throat irritated beneath the border of his beard, like he'd been worrying at it.

Pratt mumbles his greeting and welcomes him into the house.

“Y'got any of that beer left over?” Jacob rasps, slinking in beside Pratt.

“Yeah. Fridge,” Pratt says back. He watches Jacob proceed into his house, easily navigating through the entryway and dining room to the kitchen. Like before, Jacob drains most of his beer immediately after opening it, but this time Pratt's not teasing him by flirting on the phone with someone else.

Jacob's shoulders droop more than usual. The lines on his face are more pronounced. Pratt doesn't clamp down hard enough on his tongue to keep himself from asking, “Rough day?”

A scoff erupts from Jacob's throat before he finishes killing the beer. Without asking, Jacob grabs another and takes a much calmer sip. It's crap beer, anyway, he can have all of it if he wants.

“No one in this God damn county has any sense at all,” Jacob groans. His free hand comes up and rubs against his throat, right where the bulk of the irritation sits.

Pratt waits a heartbeat, two, for him to build on that, but Jacob never does. Just takes another pull from his beer before heavily setting the can down beside Pratt's plate.

“Basement doin' alright?” Jacob asks. “See you don't need the dehumidifier anymore.”

“Still got mine going, but I figured you might need yours sooner than later so I made sure to have it ready,” Pratt answers.

“That so?” Jacob snags the unbitten half of Pratt's sandwich, dips it into Pratt's mug of soup, and takes half of it in his mouth in one bite. He watches Pratt's face as he chews, like he's daring him to say anything. When he doesn't, he dips once more and pops the rest into his mouth. Wipes his hand on the tail of his already stained shirt.

“C'mon, Peaches. Let's go see how your sump pump is faring.” The urge is there to complain, to tell Jacob to stop using that nickname. Instead he follows Jacob's lead into his own basement like an obediant little dog, descending at a much more sedate pace than Jacob, long legs taking the steps two at a time.

It still smells a little damp down here. It'll probably take a few more days of ventilation and his dehumidifier to knock that out. Jacob doesn't look bothered by it at any rate, just continues on back into Pratt's laundry room.

It doesn't take long to see that, yeah, the pump is doing its job. Jacob could've done this little visit by himself while Pratt finished his food, maybe had a beer of his own.

“Ta da,” Pratt deadpans, gesturing towards the pump. He leans against his dryer and smirks when Jacob rounds on him, eyebrow raised. “Don't think you did your job correctly?”

Jacob's back straightens and his eyes sharpen. He assesses Pratt, head turned to the side. Studying him like a child would a bug, preparing to either collect or squish it to death.

Which option Jacob chooses isn't clear, even as he slowly clears the space between them. Pratt's forced back against the dryer, on his tiptoes to keep his body from properly aligning with Jacob's. It seems to amuse him, spur him on, because suddenly there's a hand on his hip and a leg nudging between his thighs.

“Thought I serviced you professionally on all accounts, Deputy Pratt,” Jacob purrs. The rumble of his voice against Pratt's throat has him shuddering despite himself. His face being turned to look away from Jacob just gives him more room on his neck to consider, and after a brief once-over Jacob's lips are on him, right over his pulse point.

“Mm, professional service, my favorite,” Pratt snarks, low and dry. He should push him away, put space between them. This isn't what he needs, not something that's gonna sustain him in any shape or form. But Jacob's warm, Jacob's mouth is soft as it moves across his skin, Jacob's here in his basement and wants him. Even if it's just for the moment.

The rasp of Jacob's beard against his own is the loudest sound in the room. “Could do it again,” Jacob says, rubbing his cheek along Pratt's jawline. Stopping his ministrations to nip here and there.

“You could,” Pratt hums, “or you couldn't.”

“ _Peaches_.”

“Really not doing yourself any favors here.”

“Didn't mind it when my dick was in you.”

“In my defense, you do have a nice dick and it impairs my judgment.” Pratt smiles when Jacob laughs against his throat. He stops fighting himself and his wounded pride. Lets himself melt into Jacob, settles down on Jacob's thigh as he tangles his fists in the bottom hem of Jacob's shirt.

His acquiescence is enough to spur Jacob on further. Hands on Pratt's hips, one sliding up beneath his shirt while the other detours around to his ass, squeezing hard. Teeth pressed firmly to Pratt's jawline as he grins when Pratt's breath hitches.

“Been thinkin' about this,” Jacob admits, squeezing for emphasis. Quietly and conversationally like he's not rolling his hips slowly into Pratt's thigh. “About coming over and fucking you through the mattress again. Maybe on your kitchen counter, or in the shower.”

“Should've,” Pratt tells him. He urges Jacob's head over and kisses him hard. It's all he can do to hang on and take what Jacob gives him, to brace himself under the ferocity of Jacob's kiss. Hungry like he wants inside. God, he'd let him. “Would've – would've let you. Any of it. All of it.”

“And now, Peaches? Gonna let me now?” Words right into Pratt's ear, soothing the agitated parts of him that say this is probably a bad idea. It's easy to melt into it when Jacob's willing to brace his weight, to cage him in against the dryer until there's only enough space between them for air to circulate.

He shouldn't.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me forever to finish. i rewrote the bulk it it like 2.5 times before deciding on a proper course, and even now i'm like hmMmMmMmm.
> 
> also i REALLY like the mental image of staci pratt waking up alone and becoming the picture of :-( until he realizes jacob's just somewhere else in the house.


	6. Chapter 6

On the threshold of his bedroom, Jacob slowly backing Pratt into the room, mouth fused to his neck and hands tight on his hips, Pratt makes a sound in his throat and begins to alter their course. He pulls Jacob along, mumbling _this way, this way_ as they stumble and shuffle together, refusing to part. The doorknob clocks him in the lower spine when Jacob urges him against the doorframe, but Pratt simply grits his teeth and extracts one of his arms to wrench the door open.

Jacob makes an inquisitive noise even as he continues sucking at Pratt's Adam's apple, his hair tickling the underside of Pratt's chin.

“Shower,” Pratt says, beginning to shepherd Jacob again, “already fucked me through the mattress. Shower was on the list.”

“Counter came before that, though.”

“Counter's gonna come before you if you fight me on this.” He smells like manual labor, musky and masculine. Attractive, but not ideal when all Pratt wants to do is drop to his knees and take Jacob into his mouth. Fresh sweat can be hot, but old sweat? Not so much.

He wonders how much of the last four days Jacob's spent working outside. There's a sunburnt pinkness on his forearms, different from the burn pinkness marking and marring up and down them in splotchy bursts. It brings out the freckles on his skin not washed out by the scarring, lightens the soft strawberry blonde hair dusting his arm.

It also highlights the dirt and oil on him, ringing around his shiny pink scars. His hands are stained with oil and grime like his shirt.

The hot water'll help with the tension in his muscles, too. The knots Pratt can feel in his shoulders, in the meat of his back. Combine the pseudo water therapy and the orgasm Pratt's planning on giving him with the exhaustion setting up shop in the bags beneath his eyes, and by the time Pratt's through with him he'll be out like a light.

“Tryin'a tell me something, Peaches?” Jacob grunts, but his eyes are amused when he finally pulls away from Pratt's throat. There are more marks on Pratt's skin, throbbing quietly, angrily, again too high for his deputy uniform to cover up, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss the other ones Jacob had left behind.

The only thing he had to remember their night together after Jacob had pulled his little disappearing act.

“I'm going to drown you, I swear to God, Jacob.” Even as the words leave his mouth, Pratt's laughing and beginning to shimmy out of his clothes. Hopeful that this will convince Jacob to follow suit, even if it's just so he can run his hands along the newly bared skin.

It works. Jacob doesn't even respond to Pratt's dull threat, just yolks his shirt over his head and discards it as he closes the space between them. The tops of his knuckles tickle at Pratt's abdomen as he unclasps his belt and pops the clasp, eases down the zipper. His jeans and boxer briefs pool at his feet but get trapped on the tops of his work boots.

Jacob Seed, huge and scarred and ex-military, looks down at his ensnared legs and nearly pouts.

His groan of frustration is fucking cute, but Pratt doesn't tell him that. He enjoys having his balls where they are, and not in a locked box on Jacob's mantle somewhere on the outskirts of town.

While Jacob frees himself, Pratt unbuttons his jeans with one hand and begins working the shower knobs. It's not the biggest nor fanciest shower Pratt's ever seen, but it's got good water pressure and the hot water heater had been changed just before he'd bought the house, so they can take their time and enjoy themselves without racing against the threat of icy water ruining the mood.

Plus, it's big enough for two grown men to comfortably share it.

Pratt likes the water hot, probably too hot for it to be good for his skin, but after a considerate look at Jacob's scars, the healed and the not-so healed, he dials the temperature down a little. Still well above warm, but no longer scorching. The goal is to relax Jacob, not to aggravate his sensitive skin.

Jacob chucks his work boots behind him. They smack against the bathroom door, falling into a heap. Probably scuff the paint, but it's not worth getting worked up over with Jacob encouraging him into the shower stall with a hand flat to Pratt's chest.

As the water saturates Pratt's hair, he wonders if Jacob entering second was a conscious move. He hadn't asked about the scars high on Jacob's shoulders last time, the ones he can just barely see curling like claw marks over the top of his shoulder, and he hadn't planned on it just now. But he's curious about what Jacob's back looks like. Is it as scarred and ruinous as his face, the right side of his body? With the way it tapers, raised and dusky pink, what little Pratt saw looks nothing like the rolling contracture scars of his burns. These are ridged and defined, a different type of braille chronicling Jacob's past miseries.

Lashings, Pratt had thought. Childhood abuse or military hazing gone wrong.

Pratt wants to put his mouth to each and every echo of trauma and suck the hurt out.

Calloused hands turn him around, Pratt's back to Jacob's chest. Jacob's hard muscle and harder cock behind him, a warm, wet wall for Pratt to grind back against. There's no protection in here, no lubricant, but Jacob's welcome to slip between Pratt's thighs and seek relief there. He'll press his legs together tight as he bends over, give Jacob something to thrust and drive into.

Those hands don't urge him over, but reach in front of Pratt to retrieve the shampoo. It's breath stealing in its intimacy, Jacob Seed opting to wash Pratt's hair. He doesn't comment on it, doesn't poke fun lest he break the spell. Just moves his head where Jacob moves him, groaning his appreciation loudly as long fingers work the lather against his scalp.

After Jacob's satisfied with his lathering and rinses out the suds, Pratt's heart is thudding heavily in his chest and his knees are a little weak.

“Good with my hands,” Jacob says smugly, childishly wiggling them in front of his chest. His arms look cleaner even from just the run-off shampoo.

“Shut up and switch places with me.” The dopey grin on Pratt's face takes all of the bite from his words. Pratt falters a little when Jacob just eyes him quietly, his own smirk fading as his arms slowly lower. Emotions flash through his eyes too quickly for Pratt to name, there one moment and gone the next.

Something in Pratt must speak to Jacob, as after a moment of consideration Jacob exhales softly and slides around Pratt and into the spray. Ducks his head under the stream, turning this way and that to both wet his hair and keep his eyes and ears off Pratt's initial response to his back.

His back's a fucking mess.

The burns on his right side wrap around even onto his back, stopping just above the swell of his ass, but Pratt had expected them to. It's the _other_ marks on him that give him pause, that have all of the blood in his veins turning to icy sludge even with the steam billowing around them.

A dozen or so long, jagged lashes mar the expanse of Jacob's back. Some of them are faded, barely there, but there's a few that scarred up thick and wide and violent. They look tight, like they'd pull and protest if Jacob were to stretch or move too much. None of them look to be newly damaged, though, so Jacob's manual labor thankfully didn't aggravate them.

He traces the tails of the ones that curl over Jacob's shoulder, the very first ones he'd seen, with his eyes. Watches as they slide down his back. The one closest to the base of Jacob's neck is the shortest of the two, barely six inches long, while the other starts in the center of his shoulder blade and brands him almost clear down to the small of his back.

There's one just off-center of his spine in the middle of his body. It's the worst of them all, the center of it at least an inch and a half wide and grizzled salmon pink. It expands across nearly the entire length of Jacob's waist, thickest in the center and thinning out to pinkie width at its tails.

It's not the right time to say anything about them. To ask who on earth had done something like that to him, to see if they're still alive so Pratt can track them down and mete out justice.

It's a big display of trust for Jacob to willingly share this with him, especially after last time when Jacob had worked so hard to only show the front half of his body. He hadn't turned on many lights, had never given Pratt his bare back. Hell, he'd slept in his t-shirt even after the second time they'd had sex.

Pratt doesn't think he's worthy of this quite yet, this new weight in his heart, but he won't make Jacob regret it.

Pratt presses a kiss to the top of Jacob's spine and reaches around him for the shampoo, quietly not drawing attention to Jacob's gentle shudder. The act of working the shampoo into Jacob's hair allows his thoughts to even out, and with his body pressed this close to Jacob's he can no longer cleanly make out Jacob's scars, though they do rub strangely against his wet chest.

He's got less hair than Pratt, but even with the sides buzzed down he's got a significant amount of it, thick and healthy for a man Jacob's age. To cut some of the tension twinging between them like an exposed nerve, Pratt sculpts Jacob's high and tight into a mohawk. It sags under its own weight pretty much immediately, but he can feel Jacob's snort reverberate through him, shaking out some of the awkwardness.

After he rinses the shampoo he has to fight Jacob a little to get him to use conditioner, but once they've both got some applied and setting in, Pratt grabs his washcloth and bar soap and begins bodily washing Jacob. Jacob's facing him now, the water's stream disturbed by his height. He calmly watches as Pratt busies himself with cleaning him head to toe. Both of their erections had wilted a little with the reveal of Jacob's worst and most secret scars, but they're both returning valiantly with every cleansing scrub, every smoothing brush of Pratt's free hand over sudsy skin.

Pratt's washes all of Jacob's upper body and is moving down the side of Jacob's hip when Jacob makes a sound in his throat and pushes him back against the wall.

“You're not getting _graded_ on this, Pratt. Showers don't gotta be this long,” he rumbles, fisting a hand tight around the base of Pratt's cock. He pumps his hand a few times up and down his shaft, encouraging it back to full hardness.

“Cleanliness—fuck—is next to Godliness, Jacob,” Pratt says as he determinedly attempts to finish his washing. It's hard to scrub when he's pinned against the wall, with Jacob's fist steadily working him faster and faster.

He gives up on the task at hand when Jacob kisses him again, dropping the washcloth to the floor. There's nowhere to put his arms except for around Jacob, nothing to do except hold on and let Jacob work his body with a tight wet fist. He tastes like beer and Pratt's fucking dinner, and for some reason it's got him grinning, kissing and gripping harder, demanding more of Jacob.

Jacob stops touching him.

It takes a moment for Pratt to realize what's happening, besides _bad wrong come back, Jacob_. It comes to him in pieces: Jacob's not touching him because Jacob's moving; Jacob's moving because he's going to his knees; Jacob's going to his knees because he's—oh.

Pratt says as much, voice as shaky and weak as his knees. The hand against his hip helps to steady him as Jacob begins working his mouth, sucking on the head of Pratt's cock before steadily sliding further and further down. It's quite a sight, watching himself disappear between Jacob's lips, and without conscious thought Pratt finds himself petting the corner of Jacob's parted lip, brushing his thumb over the expanded pocket of Jacob's cheek.

The wet sounds of Jacob's efforts are droned out by the pattering of water cascading down Jacob's back, down the side of Pratt's chest. It's unnecessary in the end, just the sight of Jacob expertly bobbing his head and rolling Pratt's sac in his hand is enough to keep Pratt's blood boiling.

At his feet, Jacob uses his free hand to jerk himself off.

“Fuck. Blowing me do it for you, huh, Jacob?” Pratt asks. He runs a hand through Jacob's sopping wet hair, so much darker now that it's waterlogged. He doesn't look quite as intimidating with it wet like this. The dick happily in his mouth kinda softens the image, too.

Blue eyes flash up at him, one strawberry blonde eyebrow cast upward. Pratt traces the arch of it with his thumb and rocks his hips forward.

Dirty talk isn't his specialty, but he knows Jacob likes it. With his mouth otherwise occupied, it's up to him to keep the commentary going, to express to Jacob how divinely hot and wet his mouth is.

“It's sad – sad that I can't – fuck, Jacob, right there – can't reach your dick from up here. Love it, didn't get to finish tasting it the other night. Want it in my _throat_ , Jacob.” Jacob moans loudly around his mouthful, the vibrations causing Pratt's toes to curl into the rubber shower mat.

Jacob shifts forward on his knees to double his efforts. He's sinking most of the way down on each bob of his head, his tongue curling up Pratt's shaft as he sucks hard and pulls up. The combination of Pratt's filthy mouth and his cock warm and heady in his mouth seems to be doing it for him, Pratt notes smugly. Jacob's hand is striping his own erection even faster now, grip tight and hips erratic like he can't help himself.

“If you stay the night, maybe that's how I'll – mm – how I'll wake you up? Blow you 'til you're nice and hard and then let you fuck me again, huh?”

God he wants him to stay over. Wants to wake up beside someone, sharing body heat beneath the covers. Listen to the day's April shower begin as he counts Jacob's breaths, as he carefully studies the scars riddling his body without having to be mindful of time and Jacob's pinning gaze.

Morning sex, maybe, with Jacob sleep-loose and warm. Too early for dirty talk, too early for rough—just gentle, almost sweet, Pratt on top rocking down onto Jacob. Or Jacob heavy on top of him, blanketing him, Pratt's knees high up on Jacob's sides as Jacob thrusts and nibbles his throat.

The water's starting to turn. Dimly Pratt registers the temperature dropping as it drags wetly down his nipple, the exposed left side of his chest.

Orgasm approaches lazily, curling warmly low in his gut. He mumbles Jacob's name and tries to pull back as a courtesy, but Jacob sucks even harder, burying Pratt deep into his throat. It's so _warm_ in there, impossibly hot and responsive and alive. His finger shake against Jacob's scalp as he comes.

Wrung out and sensitive, Pratt quietly urges Jacob to his feet. Knocks Jacob's still jerking hand out of the way to wrap his own fingers around Jacob's length.

“That what you want, Peaches? Want me in your bed?” Jacob asks. His voice is scratchy, deeper than usual. The knowledge that Pratt's the cause, Pratt's _dick_ , has him moaning and gripping harder, pumping his hand with more purpose. The precum gathered at his tip eases the way better than the shower water, gives him some glide.

“Yeah,” Pratt says, mouth just inches from Jacob's. He searches Jacob's eyes, too blue and set deep in his skull beneath strong brows and fair arches of hair. It's hard to read those eyes, but there's no mockery in them that Pratt can see. Just fire, and question, and fatigue.

“You should stay,” he whispers.

Jacob presses his forehead against Pratt's shoulder and shudders as he comes.

-

He doesn't say anything else about it, but Pratt can tell Jacob's going to stay. For added insurance, Pratt scoops up both sets of soiled clothes and pointedly walks them down to the laundry room. When the washer's started and happily churning along and he's returned to his bedroom, he finds Jacob lounging naked in his bed facing the door, tapping away on his cellphone.

The picture he makes hits Pratt in the chest like a two-by-four. Sheets pooled at his bellybutton. Auburn hair still damp and dark, but drying in increments. Curling, God it's starting to _curl_ against Jacob's scalp.

Handsome and relaxed, like he belongs there.

“Do you want pajamas?” He'd slipped on a clean pair of boxers after their shower so he could go downstairs. Some people feel comfortable completely naked doing menial tasks in their home, but it's always freaked him out a little. What if he'd pinched his dick when closing the washer?

Jacob raises an eyebrow. The gesture alone has heat foolishly flooding his cheeks.

Crawling onto the bed beside Jacob, Pratt shrugs his shoulders. “It's just that, last time—”

“You've seen them already. No real use in covering up,” Jacob says, tone even and matter of fact. Something blooms and wilts in his gaze, causing Jacob to sit up and shift so his back is against the headboard. A touch of rigidity to his posture, hidden in an attempted casual lean. It's wrong, fake and stiff. Jacob doesn't do very well with not saying or doing exactly what he means. “Unless you want me to?”

“You don't have to cover them, Jacob,” Pratt answers quickly, softly as he turns inward to better face Jacob. Hopes that the look in his eyes showcases just how much Pratt means his words. Jacob's scars have never disgusted him, never had him recoiling. They sadden him, make him wish Jacob had never had to suffer—but never disgusted him.

They're beautiful, in their own fucked up way.

Pratt idly traces the tails of the two lashes that curl over Jacob's shoulder.

Jacob's hand flies out, encircling Pratt's wrist. He stills for just long enough to determine that Jacob's not going to yank his hand away. The hypertrophic scarring feels strange beneath his fingertips, risen and smooth. The undamaged skin of Jacob's shoulder begins to prickle with goosebumps.

“Got some weird thing for scars I should know about, Peaches?” There's an edge to his voice, a tiny display of aggression. Possibly fear. His tone's sharper than he's ever wielded against Pratt, but it's all a smoke screen. Jacob trying to get ahead of a blow, trying to soften it. Defending himself from judgment and pity and disgust.

“No,” Pratt says quietly, still petting along the shiny pink scars, “got a weird thing for you, though.”

-

For the second time, Jacob's not in bed when Pratt wakes up. The familiar rush of disappointment surges up in him, bright and miserable, but after last time Pratt decides to wait until he's searched the house before giving into despair.

His first clue that Jacob's still around are the lights on in the hallway, running down the stairs.

His second is that a few of his clothing drawers have been disturbed, Jacob having rummaged through them for something to throw on. They'd fallen asleep before Pratt could switch over the laundry, but their height and bulks aren't too dissimilar that Jacob couldn't find a pair of sweats or flannels to wear.

The third is Jacob himself, grumbling quietly as he stands at Pratt's dining room table, bare chested and barefoot, wearing a pair of Pratt's sweats with a Thin Blue Line decal stretching up the right leg. The dead TV from the living room has been opened and gutted, its pieces lay spread across the tabletop. A toolbag sits in the chair at Jacob's side. Must've brought it in from the truck.

“Y'keep slipping out of bed in the night, I'm gonna get a complex,” Pratt says, leaning against the wall. He thrills a little at spooking Jacob, at for once being able to startle cocksure, in charge Jacob Seed.

Jacob turns to look at him so Pratt can see him rolling his eyes.

“Have trouble sleeping. Didn't want to wake you.” Watching the muscles in his back shift without a shirt on has Pratt's stomach flipflopping between warmth and icy sludge. Handsome, strong, horribly scarred.

“Gonna be a habit?” Pratt crosses the distance between them. He fiddles with a screw driver until Jacob snatches it from his hands and returns it to its spot on the table. “Fixing shit at ass o'clock in the morning?”

“If you'd like, I could just leave,” Jacob huffs, though he makes no efforts to stop working on the gutted television.

“I don't want you to leave, Jacob. Pretty sure I've already told you as much.” The awkward tension building between them has Pratt rapping his knuckles against the tabletop to occupy himself. He hates that they have such a hard time finding their footing after the fucking is over. He doesn't have much personal experience spending time with a person after he's fucked them, tends to grab his stuff and head for the hills as soon as possible, but this thing with Jacob—he _wants_ to see where it could go. Wants to know if Jacob wants that, too. To see if they're reading from the same book.

They probably need to set ground rules, work out what this is and isn't while both of them are relatively even and level-headed.

But Pratt can't get his mouth to work. What if asking for perimeters sends Jacob running, far and fast? Pops the tension between them like one of Rachel's bubbles, sending gum flying everywhere when it all goes to hell. Sticky residue on everything Pratt touches, reminding him of Jacob. Unable to get him out, like gum matted in his hair.

Instead he raps his knuckles against the table again.

“It's, uh.” Pratt looks around the lip of the kitchen doorway to eye the time on the microwave. “Almost four. I'll go put our clothes in the dryer and we'll...we'll have breakfast, huh? Maybe after we'll try sleep again?”

“Okay,” Jacob says simply. He taps his knuckles against the frame of the television, echoing Pratt. “Okay.”

-

It's the start of a routine for them.

They fuck—pretty much everywhere. The bed. The shower again. The top of the dryer while Jacob's work clothes tumble dry. On Pratt's couch, while some dumb, incredibly inaccurate crime drama flashes in the background. On the kitchen counter while they wait for dinner to finish cooking, the knob of the cabinet behind Pratt biting into his shoulder as Jacob thrusts.

Jacob spends the night but wakes up sometime before sunrise, averaging three to four hours a night. Little things around the house suddenly work better than they did before, like the good as new television in the living room.

“It just blew a fuse,” Jacob had mumbled when Pratt thanked him over eggs, but his ears were starting to pinken, eyes ablaze with pride.

They eat, then go back to bed if time permits. Sometimes Jacob has to work, sometimes Pratt, sometimes both. In that case, Pratt will set the coffee pot for two instead of one and then drag Jacob into the shower with him.

They distance themselves for a few days. Jacob doesn't get pulled over nearly as much. The Station is still aflutter, everyone catching on to McKenna's pod-person theory.

Inevitably one of them caves and bootycalls the other, and Pratt meets Jacob on the front porch a handful of hours later to start things all over again.

It gets messier each and every time. After the second time, Pratt starts texting him idly. Nothing serious, just random things that amuse Pratt that he thinks will make Jacob laugh. He thinks about that a lot, Jacob's rumbling chuckle pressed against the column of Pratt's throat. How his shoulders shake with it and the lines near his eyes bunch up, handsome and softening.

 **Pratt 10:49AM**  
carlson (the one you hate) just rear ended the sheriff in the parking lot holy SHIT

 

 **Jacob 10:53AM  
** Did Whitehorse kill him

 **Pratt 10:53AM  
** nah, but i'm pretty sure his blood pressure is waaaaaay up 

 **Pratt 10:54AM  
** got this lil vein throbbing in his forehead

 **Pratt 10:54AM  
** carlson looks like he's gonna piss himself 

 **Jacob 10:57AM  
** How the hell did he even become a cop

 **Pratt 10:58AM  
** BEATS THE HLEL OUT OF ME

 **Pratt 10:58AM  
** Hell* fuck it

 

 **Jacob 10:59AM  
** Shouldnt you be working?

“Shouldn't you be working?” Pratt mocks, sitting up in his desk chair. He _is_ on the clock, but there's nothing going on. Everyone's recovered from the plague and, as per usual, things are slow in Hope County.

 **Pratt 10:59AM  
** FINE i'll talk to someone else 

 **Pratt 11:00AM  
** asshole

 **Pratt 11:00AM  
** :-(

 **Jacob 11:03AM  
** Are you fifteen? Jesus

 **Pratt 11:05AM  
** if i'm 15 that makes what happened last night really fuckin illegal, old man

 **Jacob 11:07AM  
** Dont you have innocent civilians to be ticketing? I sure as shit have stuff to do

It's hard enough to read Jacob when they're in the same room, let alone via text message. Pratt sets his phone down and sighs, figuring that's as much as he's going to get out of Jacob. It's more than he usually does—most of the time, Jacob doesn't even respond to the weird shit Pratt sends. He's a bad texter, but Pratt never expected anything different. If he wanted conversation, he'd text Hudson across the room, or Naomi at the firehouse.

With Jacob, the only true mission is to keep Pratt on his mind. Make him think of Pratt, make him want to climb back into Pratt's bed. The plan works pretty well, though the wait time of two to three business days between seeing Jacob is really starting to get old.

They haven't spoken about what they're doing yet, just that they want to keep doing it. Hoping that time will smooth out the remaining details, either end up with them dating or with them fucking each other out of their systems. The longer Jacob's in his bed, in his kitchen, in his fucking living room in the middle of the night reassembling a box fan, the more Pratt hopes and hopes and _hopes_ for the first one.

They don't even have to call it dating. An assurance of mutual exclusivity is all he needs for right now. Just the thought of Jacob fucking someone else on the side when he's more than welcome in Pratt's bed can ruin a whole day for him. Have his own little storm cloud pissing over his head until he speaks with Jacob again.

It's pathetic, the scraps he'd take.

He still fiddles with the dating app but can no longer kid himself into believing this is more than just busy work, something to occupy and amuse.

Grindr's no longer on his phone. His account not deleted, but since it's no longer downloaded and he's got Jacob to think of, he kind of forgets the app exists.

Pocketing his phone, he roams around the Station looking for things to do. He straightens up in their tiny kitchen, emptying the coffee maker of the old grinds some asshole left in the tray God knows how long ago. When he opens the fridge to throw a forgotten drink inside, Pratt decides to clean it out and rearrange it.

It's a poor use of the public's tax dollars, but there's nothing else going on. Whitehorse can't send him home because he needs people available in case something _does_ happen, but without people out there getting hurt or breaking the law, Pratt's just twiddling his thumbs.

He's got music playing out of his cell phone and half his body inside the fridge, old tupperware containers and long forgotten, half-finished drinks spread out on the floor around him when the music blips out for a moment. In his awkward crab-walk to get out of the fridge, he clocks his head on one of the plastic bins.

 **Jacob 11:21AM  
** You free tonight?

The stupid heart in Pratt's chest thuds and thuds and thuds. He looks around the room as calmly as he can, trying to see if anyone can hear the lovesick drumming of his heart.

It's Wednesday, which means he spends his evening sprawled out on Hudson's couch eating popcorn with his head in her lap, watching some bullshit movie on Netflix. It's an unofficial-official weekly date, but Pratt would cancel in a heartbeat if it meant he got to see Jacob again so soon.

He doesn't feel bad. Hudson canceled on him all the time before Naomi became part of the picture fully. Now instead of ditching Pratt to hang out with her, Naomi just sits tucked beside her on the couch, usually with her fingers in Pratt's hair. Sometimes they even switch spots, but instead of sitting beside Hudson, Pratt will take the other side of the couch and pull Naomi's legs into his lap.

He could—he could invite Jacob?

“No, God that's too soon. He'd never speak to you again,” Pratt whispers to himself furiously.

“Hm?” Nancy calls from the other room.

“Talking to myself, Nance!” Pratt calls, unlocking his phone with his thumb to reply.

 **Pratt 11:24AM**  
what did you have in mind??

Staring at his phone, willing Jacob to hurry up and answer.

 **Jacob 11:26AM  
** Want to see a movie?

 **Jacob 11:27AM  
** One of the Hannibal movies is playing in Polson

Movie date? Pratt grips his phone so hard it creaks.

And Hannibal? Like—like Hannibal Lecter? How on brand, Jacob.

 **Pratt 11:28AM  
** i get off at 5:30. what time's the movie?

 **Jacob 11:30AM  
** 7:00

 **Jacob 11:31AM  
** I'm driving

 **Pratt 11:31AM  
** remember i have limited pull outside of hope county, so if you get pulled over for speeding like a dumbass you're gonna have to turn tricks to get out of it.

 **Jacob 11:35AM  
** You're prettier than me. Should just offer you up.

 **Jacob 11:36AM  
** Be ready by 5:50, then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this house we luv + respect: these two showering together, pratt waking up alone all the fuckin time, and jacob having sleeping issues. also the hannibal movie is hella self-serving because i'm a huge fan myself. it's not a reference to miller, who will Not be tragically cannibalized in this eff why eye.


	7. Chapter 7

There's too much _time_ between the movie and now. Pratt's keenly aware of how many seconds are in a minute, minutes are in an hour—how many hours are left until 5:50PM.

Christ, it's not even fucking _noon_.

The clock above Whitehorse's door clicks and clicks but never fast enough.

Pratt had already been struggling to find something to do, but now it's like his insides are buzzing, the butterflies in his stomach brought on by Jacob's _anything_ swooping and diving and flapping their wings. Frenzied like he is, eagerly awaiting what he's calling in his head _The Next Step_. It has to be the next step, right?

Animosity with sexual tension meets aid (with sexual tension). That in turn leads to fucking, which after a four-day long bump in the road leads to _routine_ fucking, _regular_ fucking. Jacob in his bed every two to three days regular fucking. It's gotten so bad that Pratt's body has begun to wake him up in the middle of the night when Jacob begins to stir, and from there he has three courses of action available: initiate sex again, tire Jacob out, make it so whatever's going on in Jacob's head when he's defenseless has no energy to start back up; fling his arm out to his beside table and grab the remote so they can channel surf without leaving the bed, Pratt inching his way into Jacob's open arm, Jacob laughing at him but not moving away, pulling _closer_ ; or, climb out of bed with Jacob and direct him towards the nearest problem item on the list before setting off to fix them something to eat.

Most of what they're doing has been contained within the walls of Pratt's house. Away from prying, judgmental eyes, Jacob drops all of his armor when he drops his clothes and returns to Pratt's bed. They haven't talked about doing things together in public, too caught up in the novelty of this, but it's more than past due.

It _has_ to be the next step. But what _kind_ of step? It's in public, even if that public space _is_ in Polson, and it's at a movie theater so the logical conclusion is that it's a date. A movie date. Old fashioned sharing a soda and popcorn movie date, pressed into small bucket seats side-by-side sharing the middle armrest.

Is Jacob going to hold his hand? Do that cheesy yawn-and-lift arm motion after moving the armrest divider, pulling Pratt into his chest? The kind of shit Pratt used to pull in his teens, out with classmates and his mother's debit card in his wallet. Too much cologne and sweaty palms.

“No, that's fuckin' weird,” Pratt mumbles to himself beneath his breath, pointedly ignoring the heat prickling in his cheeks, the sweat slicking his palms. It's all as nerve-wracking as it was when he was a teen.

Does Jacob like him like that? _Like_ like, not just like like.

Does Jacob wanna go steady?

Will Pratt ever grow the _fuck up_ and stop obsessing over this like a crazy person?

This doesn't have to be a fucking pole vault. He's not expecting Jacob to plant one on him at the ticket booth or slip a hand into his back pocket. This is still rural Montana, and even if Jacob's big as shit and Pratt's a cop, unfortunately they can still attract malicious eyes.

 _Just be cool_ , he tells himself. Easier fucking said than done.

Pratt stares at the clock above the door leading into Whitehorse's office.

11:47AM

He slumps in his desk chair and groans.

-

At a quarter to two, Whitehorse calls him into his office.

There's a phone ringing in the corner of the Station as Pratt shambles his way to the Sheriff's office from his half-organized desk. Nancy answers it without even looking at him, twirling a pen in her grip.

His hands are tingly red from prolonged exposure to bleach wipes, but the little kitchenette set up they've got is sanitized and sparkling, and he's wiped down all of the stuff on his desktop for the umpteenth time in the last month. Not wearing gloves and having most of his upper body in the fridge while he scrubbed and scrubbed might not've been the best idea, the fumes from the bleach making his head fuzzy and his nose wrinkle, but it was the easiest way to get the job done.

He fidgets in the chair opposite Whitehorse, sitting tall and concerned in his desk chair on the other side of the desk. Too clear gray-green eyes watching as Pratt wrings his slightly burning hands, as he itches them along the starched fabric covering his knees. Dusty and creased from being on the ground, now in need of a thorough cleaning.

“You gotta problem, son?” Whitehorse asks.

“What d'ya mean, Sheriff?” Pratt mumbles, shifting in his seat. Eyes on the Sheriff's white mustache and not those tornado sky eyes.

“Lookin' like you got ants in your pants over there,” he chuffs, gesturing forward as Pratt continues to squirm.

 _Hey, Sheriff, I'm fucking Jacob Seed and we're going on a **date** later and I'm just really fucking nervous, okay? _He thinks about saying for a hysterical moment.

“Just—just bored, Sheriff. Looking for things to do. Might've, uh. Might've inhaled too much of the bleach?” To stop himself, he pins his hands between his knees and squeezes them together. It just sends the nervous, anticipatory energy cascading somewhere else, like electrical current that's been redirected.

His left foot begins to tap, the rubber sole of his work boot squeaking on every second or third bounce.

“Boy, you oughta be lucky you're a cop because you'd make a _shit_ criminal. You can't lie worth a damn.”

“Sheriff—”

“Wanna run that by me again?”

He's not _wrong_. Pratt's never been that great with secrets or with lying. Using them to his best advantage, yes, but sitting on something like this? The only thing keeping him from climbing on the roof and crowing his stupid God damn head off is the fact that it might send Jacob running for the hills, out into one of those creepy doomsday bunkers that litter the mountainside.

He feels like he's going to pop every time he sees Hudson. She knows something's up, he can tell with the way she narrows her eyes at him and just _stares_. Unashamedly stares at him, like if she makes him squirm long enough he'll crack and spill. Possibly willing the ever-present collection of hickies on his neck to shift around and spell out the name of the bedpartner Pratt's withholding from her. She's come close to cracking him like an egg a couple of times, sweat on his upper lip and his eyes firmly on the task at hand to avoid all 5'6” of her, but his need to lock this shit down with Jacob first overrides her confession-pulling powers.

Jacob couldn't have asked him out on a better night. With it being Wednesday Movie Night, he'd have had to suffer through question after question with no possible escape, no refuge from her prying eyes and concerned big sister heart.

Possibly physical violence, too, like Hudson sitting on his chest or on the backs of his legs, _Staci you have to tell me these things. Do it or I'll kick your ass! Oh, I'll call your mom!_

Naomi in the background making popcorn, giving him an apologetic shrug while he begs her to sic her girlfriend off of him.

“I uh...I have a date,” he blurts.

The Sheriff stills, blinking at him. He opens his mouth, spreads his hands in front of him, before promptly clicking it closed and letting his hands rest palm-down on the glossy top of his desk. “Well,” he chuckles.

“I—they— _he._ He,” Pratt says, getting a little worked up. Leg bouncing so fast his hands slip free of his makeshift clamps and reappear in front of his chest, gesticulating as he talks. “It's the first time we've—and I _might_ be losing my shit a little. Just! A little. He's—I dunno. Not—well, I dunno, actually, uh. Not closeted? Might be closeted?”

The Sheriff _stares_ at him, the corners of his mustache twitching.

“'plain's all the hickeys,” he mumbles, watching casually as the heat that had been steadily building in Pratt's face catches and threatens to melt his skin off. Wildfire jumping the road, eating up everything in sight. The Sheriff can probably feel the miserable heat he's giving off. Roast a fuckin' marshmellow on it. Might even be able to hear the butterflies wings flapping in his gut, roaring like helicopter blades. “He got a name?”

It's Pratt's turn to imitate a freshly caught fish: opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it.

“Ah,” the Sheriff says sagely. “Closeted, okay.”

The relief that sings through his chest has him slumping in his chair. His leg continues to bounce but not nearly as feverishly, and while his hands still itch to move they're contented with wringing themselves in his lap, no longer punching and chopping at the air.

“He at least a good man?” It's almost too much, the crescendoing nervous energy in his chest screaming _tonight tonight tonight_ coupled with taking the edge off his secret burden, and the look in the Sheriff's eyes. Washed out green like sea glass, warm and crisp like the sun's shining through it. The closest thing he's ever had to a father figure, sitting across from him with a gentle, paternal smile. Supportive of him as long as this new mystery man is good to him.

He probably wouldn't even care that it was Jacob. Might have some reservations, but if Pratt could vouch—and he could by now, he thinks, trusts in Jacob's capable hands and steady head—the Sheriff wouldn't pry.

Hudson most definitely would, but he's putting that off for a little while longer. Snoozing the alarm instead of outright turning it off.

“Y-yeah." Coughs, clears his throat of his embarassment so he can put conviction on his words. "Yeah, I believe he is,” Pratt says quietly, chin tucked to his chest. “Just...nervous. Want this to go right.”

The knocking at the door nearly has his mouth snapping closed.

Whitehorse gestures to him to remain seated, face calm and placating, and uses his other hand to gesture their visitor into the room.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” Nancy says, “Looks like someone's mare got loose out in the Valley and injured herself in the process. Animal Control was called too, but she's damaged some of the surrounding property.”

“Want me to go, Sheriff?” Pratt asks. He puts on his best puppy dog eyes, trying to milk the Sheriff's paternal affections for all they're worth. A chance to get out from under the Sheriff's eyes, to get out of this office, to get out of the fucking Station. A chance to swipe away a little of the sands of time separating him and a date with Jacob Seed and Hannibal fucking Lecter.

“Go on,” the Sheriff says, indicating the door with his chin.

Pratt claps his hands together in thanks and practically runs for the door.

It's not raining outside at the moment, but it's the wet season still. Won't begin to clear up until late May, nearly June, when the rain clouds roll out but leave the humidity behind. The heat ratchets up, makes your clothes stick to your skin and venturing outside a God damn chore. Makes you wish you hadn't complained so much about the rains, they'd feel infinitely better than the heat.

He's throwing on his jacket just in case when Hudson rounds the corner of his desk.

“Goin' somewhere, Stace?” she hums.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, intentionally vague. Can't afford to look at her, can't let her see that the Sheriff's already begun splitting him open to grab at the truth. She'll crack him the rest of the way, reach into the dark and wet of his chest and abdominal cavities to root around.

Cup the butterflies in her hand and release them one by one, blue and red like Jacob's eyes, his hair. Watch them flutter around the room.

“Want some company?” Leaning hard on his desk and into his space, batting her eyelashes. Her flirting doesn't work the same way it did when they were teenagers, when any string of pretty lilted words could rile him up. The fact that she's gay doesn't help.

“No,” he says quickly. Probably too quickly. He can feel her staring at him again, looking for any crack in his mask to slither in.

“Hey Sheriff!” she calls, leaning back on her arms. The muscles in her forearms budge, make the American flag in her tattoo almost wave. She's got a farmer's tan and freckles dusting up and down her arm.

When she gets a distant grunt of acknowledgment back, she continues with, “Y'mind if I tag along with Pratt?”

“What? Joey—” he begs.

“S'fine with me, Hudson. You two go on.” So much for paternal affection.

-

They find her near Larry Parker's trailer, breathing raggedly and tiredly chewing at the tall grasses lapping at her legs. Larry himself is talking the ear off of Animal Control when they pull up, after what's got to be one of the most awkward car rides Pratt's ever had in his _life_.

He gets away from the cruiser as fast as he can, stepping away from the shaded curb they'd parked on and into the sun. No clouds that he can see, so he'd left his coat in the driver's seat. Begins rolling up the sleeves of his Deputy button-up as he clears the distance between the bewildered Animal Control responders getting an earful of Larry's latest crackpot theory.

“Hey, hey. Mr. Parker. Can I borrow these nice folks for a minute? Official police business,” Pratt says.

“Official? How official? Official official or O _fficial_ official?” The tips of his hair look recently fried, split ends wispy and crinkled as they billow around him in the gentle breeze. Glasses askew, like he's blown one of the pins loose.

Pratt blinks. The Animal Control officers are taking careful steps backward to his side. “Uh. The first one?”

It's the right answer, as Larry's shoulders lose some of their rigidity. But it's short lived, as as soon as Hudson meets them he explodes again. “That horse! It _ate_ my notes!”

“We're real sorry about that, Larry,” Pratt pacifies. “Do you have your work saved anywhere else?”

Larry pokes himself in the temple, further skewing his glasses. “Up here. But what if—what if _they_ own the horse and now have access to my work? It'll be catastrophic!”

One of the Animal Control officers, a man with a receding hairline and a bad sunburn, foolishly asks, “They?” Pratt guesses he's not from around town, but the woman he's partnered must be, as she groans in unison with Pratt and Hudson.

“The _aliens_!” he cries. Behind him, the mare whinnies again and snorts. Paces in the grass, but thankfully doesn't move much from her general area. Even from the roadside, Pratt can tell she's bleeding from her flank. Blood shines brightly in the sunlight along her muscled back haunch, makes the black of her fur shine crimson. It's even on the grasses, dampening them and causing them to clump together, attach themselves to her sweaty, blood-stained side until she shifts again and dislodges them.

“Now, Larry,” Hudson advises. “Why don't you come with me and give a statement? Did she damage anything else on your property?” Taking one for the team, bless her. He's running point and she's got defense, so she'll take a bullshit, unnecessary statement so he can speak with Animal Control and see what they want to do.

They've got a beat-up pick up truck with a much newer horse trailer attached, its doors open and platform lowered in waiting. It's big enough for at least two fully grown horses to ride comfortably, he can tell by its width.

“Hey, I'm Deputy Pratt. That's Deputy Hudson,” he says, offering his hand to the woman to shake, and then to the man.

“Deb Marsh. This is Charlie Boyd.”

"What's up with the horse?” he asks, gesturing to her with his thumb.

“Looks like she cut herself pretty good on a fence or some metal barn. Followed the blood trail and the sounds of distress and found her here,” Charlie says, wiping away sweat with the sleeve of his t-shirt. He's got a reel of rope in his hands, a tie at the end already knotted like a lasso.

“The owners called right after the second complaint came in. They live out in the Henbane. Don't know how she got out, but they're worried sick,” adds Deb. She's got soft eyes, Pratt notes, magnified by the glasses on the bridge of her nose. Older, maybe in her fifties. Hugely tanned with bright, almost blinding salt and pepper hair thrown up in a loose bun.

“Call came in said there was property damage. Did y'happen to see where when you were looking for her?” Pratt takes a notepad out of his back pocket, retrieves the pen running through its metal spirals and clicks it on.

“Just some fencing as far as I know?” Deb says. She shrugs her shoulders and indicates to her partner to begin cautiously for the mare. “I just wanted to get to her. There's a lot of her blood spilt around Hope County. Y'mind giving us a hand?”

He pockets his useless notepad quickly. Looks like he and Hudson'll have to track down the damage themselves. Whatever they can't find, someone will eventually report. “Where do you want me?”

“Come 'round her right side, opposite Charlie. Keep away from the back of 'er. Help keep her calm while we wrangle her.”

They cross the sea of wavy flaxen grass and stop a handful of feet from the mare's side. This close up, Pratt can see a gash in her lower right leg, cut into her deep enough that her nervous pacing makes the exposed flesh quiver sickeningly. The white he's seeing he's pretty sure is exposed fat tissue and muscle. She smells like sweat and blood and hay, thick and itchy in his nose.

The Animal Control officers take their positions, Charlie on the left side and Deb at the mare's head. She mumbles soothingly as she approaches, the rope from earlier now in her possession. Loop angled down so she can slowly feed it over the mare's head, if they're allowed to approach.

She's still speaking quietly to the horse as she lowers the rope. The mare's chest heaves and shudders as she breathes, but she looks exhausted and scared, hoping the humans will help. Fully domesticated, Pratt would assume, though he knows fuck all about horses.

They're big, stupidly delicate, pretty. He liked the movie _Spirit_ enough.

He's petting the horse's flank and watching Deb softly begin to lead the mare towards the trailer, rope slack and dragging across the grass, when Larry's voice booms into the quiet.

The horse rears back onto her back legs, front legs extended and kicking. Luckily Deb is far enough away to avoid the kicking, just holds tight to her rope and continues speaking calmly to the mare.

Charlie and Pratt aren't so lucky.

Pratt at least has the grace to fall normally after getting body checked by the ass of a horse—he just falls flat onto his ass in the dirt. His body stings, pain flashing through him in pulses, but not worse than his pride. Charlie, however, took several fearful steps back, fell and _rolled_. He pops up from the ground with red cheeks and grass sticking out of his hair.

“Smooth, Larry,” Hudson scolds, “sorry, guys.”

Deb just continues leading the horse away, as if nothing had happened at all. Not meeting anyone else's eyes, Charlie goes to help her secure the horse.

“Are you all going to make sure my notes get properly destroyed?” Larry asks.

Ignoring him, Hudson offers Pratt a hand to get him back on his feet. When she's hefted him up, she wrinkles her nose and groans.

“Ew,” she hisses, holding her hand out, “you've got blood on—oh shit, Stace.”

“What?” He keeps his hands extended in front of him, noting the blood that he got all over Hudson's hands. He hadn't thought about it when petting the horse, had just wanted to calm her. Now his hand is stained, blotchy and red, sticky on the clasp of his wristwatch. He's just opened his mouth to complain about his arm when he realizes the blood's all over his chest.

It's all over him, like a fucking Rorschach portrait. He wonders what he'd see if he took off his button-up and looked real hard.

A dumbass with his ass in the dirt. A dumbass with a huge stupid Thing for Jacob Seed.

“Just fuckin' _great_ ,” Pratt seethes.

“You wanna come in and clean up? Least I can do. I've got homemade soap! None of the chemicals you'll find in that store bought crap,” says Larry brightly.

-

It's almost four by the time they pull up at the Stop-N-Go to fill up. They'd driven out to find as much of the damaged property as they could, broken, bloodied fences and a single dented car, before driving out to the Henbane to get the information from the owners.

His uniform top is probably unsalvageable. Turns out he _didn't_ have a spare change of clothes in the trunk—must be in his locker. Instead of rinsing and treating his shirt at Larry's and having to endure more of his mind numbing chatter, Pratt had just opted to keep wearing the thing until he could change at the Station. To keep from looking like a crazy axe-murderer, he'd let Hudson do most of the talking when they got to the owner's residence.

He stays in the car while she runs in to put cash on the pump. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, trying to make out if that's Rachel behind the counter or one of the other girls who part times there. They all kind of look alike, Midwestern blonde hair and piercings and heavy make up and that same bland uniform, though he's noticed Rachel's make-up has been steadily softening, becoming more and more natural, like she's dialing it down. Near transparent glittery white eyeshadow and just a touch of mascara to make her doey hazel eyes pop, and soft pink, almost nude lipgloss shimmering on her mouth. He's never seen her outside of work, but he'd guess that even her style of dress has changed, too.

She's even removed the eyebrow ring, though it'll scar like her tracks.

He wonders if the NA program she's in is religiously based, like most of them are. If she's found sobriety through God more power to her. He just hopes she knows she doesn't have to _change_ for some higher power to love her.

A vehicle to his left blows into the Stop-n-Go's entrance much too fast. He's leaning against the wheel, incredulous, eyes squinted in the afternoon sun to figure out what kind of fucking idiot would do that with a cop car—

Oh. It's Jacob. That kind of fucking idiot.

Pratt's kind of fucking idiot.

He's trying to maintain a stern expression, but his lips have a mind of their own. Split high and wide on his face, no choice but to literally just _grin and bear it_ as Jacob hops out of the cab and throws his door closed behind him. He must've seen Pratt in the driver's seat before he pulled in because he wastes no time in sauntering across the parking lot.

Pratt's rolling down his window before Jacob's even there, sticking half his upper body out to say, “How do you even still _have_ a license, Jacob?”

That laugh makes his toes curl in his boots. Pratt sits up straight when Jacob finally finishes his approach. Leans his huge body into the cruiser, one arm braced on the rubber window channel, the other on the lip of the door. Forehead pressed against the bar of his arm, blocking his hair from sight but showcasing those too blue eyes and the softening crinkle of his crow's feet.

Jacob's got big teeth, big everything frankly, but there's something almost off-putting about having them showcased in full so close to his face. His stupid heart hammers in his chest, fondness and prey-instinct flashing through him while Jacob stares down at him from atop his wolf's grin.

“S'cause—what the fuck is _that_ , Staci?” Jacob tries to open the car door, but the safety locks prevent him from opening it while the car is still running. He easily circumvents that by sticking his hand inside the car and pulling the latch from Pratt's side. “Why're you covered in blood?”

That's not a tone he's ever heard Jacob use. Deep and pissed off, rumbling out of him like it's used its claws to escape. Possessive, defensive, like Jacob would fuck someone up for him, all he needs is a name. There are hands on his jaw, turning his head this way and that. Jacob's hands warm and dry against his skin, touching to reassure Pratt just as much to reassure himself.

“It's not mine,” Pratt says softly, braceleting a hand around Jacob's wrist. Beneath his fingertips, Jacob's pulse is quick and heavy. The knowledge that Pratt possibly being injured effects him so much is warm, warm like the sun's living inside him. So worth getting bodychecked by a fucking horse.

“Did you—did you just call me _Staci_?” Pratt squeaks. He didn't even know that Jacob knew his first name. He'd never called him anything but Officer or Pratt or God damn Peaches. It's not horrible coming from him, births a weird squirming feeling in his gut, makes him want to shift in his seat, but he'd much rather be called Pratt.

Only his mother, Hudson, and Naomi are allowed to call him Staci or Stace—his mother because she birthed him, she'll always have a free pass, and Hudson because she practically went through puberty with him and knows some Things.

Naomi 'cause he likes her and she's never made a Thing about it.

But if this thing with Jacob becomes a Thing, capital T...he might let Jacob call him that. He could learn to like his first name if Jacob was moaning it. Pressing it against his throat while he thrusts. STACI, each syllable accompanied by a press of teeth.

Jacob's nearly inside the car with him, pressing Pratt as far back against his seat as he'll go. Ignoring the question, not even deeming it worthy of a response until he's made sure Pratt's okay. The button-up is tugged open a few buttons as Jacob looks to make sure the blood truly isn't his. The button-up is _definitely_ getting thrown away. One of the buttons is out on the asphalt, spinning once, twice, thrice before it collapses. “Then who's the fuck is it?”

“It's from a horse, Jake. I'm fine, I swear.”

“Jesus Christ.” Rearing back a little to drape one arm along the lip of the cruiser's roof, Jacob sighs heavily and scratches through his beard. “Maybe warn somebody? Can't just—”

“I didn't expect you to tear into the parking lot!” Pratt hisses. “I didn't even go inside so people wouldn't see me and freak out!”

“Who's inside, then?” Jacob asks.

“Hudson's turn to fill up. She's putting money on the pump.” Pratt watches Jacob's face critically, tries to at least be subtle about it. So far Pratt's not told anyone about Jacob because this whole thing is so nebulous—Jacob in his bed one night, gone for the next handful. Flirting and fucking in private but reserved in public—and while he hasn't asked Jacob if he's still in the closet something tells him he's made the right choice in holding off. Jacob's nostrils flare and his jaw works, all signs of him mulling something over.

It prickles in Pratt's gut, an uncomfortable tingling feeling. Watching Jacob work out whether or not he needs to jump ship right now or if he can still spin his presence when Hudson returns. Pratt thinks about all of the “straight” men he's ever been with, locked firmly inside their closets, trying to convince him there's enough room for two inside. About how he never wanted to get involved with someone who'd downplay the significance of their relationship to the world.

Not that there's any _significance_ here, but there could be. God, there could be. Pratt's so stupidly into him and it's only been just under a month and he can feel Jacob beneath his skin, locked in tight like a fishing hook. Snagged in Pratt's lip, dragging him through murky waters. Each sure touch from Jacob's hand cranking the reel more and more.

Catch, release. Catch, release.

Oh, how he wants to be caught.

After a few more moments of tense silence, Pratt sits up and makes to break it.

“She doesn't know, Jacob,” Pratt mumbles, rubbing his neck. Catch, release. Catch, release. Eyes not on Jacob but on the buttons that control the window, stationed at Jacob's left hip. He can see Jacob's hip in his peripheral, the pale cut of his hipbones exposed where his dark jeans rest low on his hips and his black t-shirt is pulled away from the angle of his arm.

He knows what that skin tastes like.

Jacob hums. “Do you trust her?”

Without hesitation, he answers, “With my life.”

He makes eye contact then. Things with Jacob might be in shades of gray, but Joey Hudson's been friends with him most his life. Best friends once they ended up in the same Sheriff's Department, and inseparable since. She'd been there for him through relationship drama, through house hunting, through his useless sperm donor of a biological father sniffing around a few years back looking to make “amends.” He'd take a bullet for her gladly. No matter how much he wants this to work out between them, he wouldn't sacrifice Joey Hudson for it.

Those blue eyes study him, flicker all around his face. Squinted and shrewd, the harshness of the expression makes him look older, stresses his scars.

All of a sudden his expression clears, softens.

Jacob leans back a little to assess all of him, not just his face. Pratt's not sure what just happened, but he think he passed one of Jacob's little tests.

He hums again. Reaches out to brush some of Pratt's hair behind his ear, the tips of his fingers ghosting along the shell of Pratt's ear. He shivers and shivers hard at the touch, exhaling choppily. He feels jittery like he did in the Station, too much energy, too exposed, _Jacob Jacob Jacob_.

“I'll see you tonight, Peaches. Don't forget: 5:50,” Jacob says as he backs away from the car. Dimly, Pratt can hear the _ding!_ of the Stop-N-Go's front door ringing.

“Wait, Jacob!” Pratt hisses.

“Tonight,” Jacob calls. At the store's entrance, he catches the door Hudson's just exited before it swings shut and disappears inside.

Before Hudson's even at the car, Pratt can feel her questioning eyes on him. Rather than face another bout of The Aggressive and Sometimes Cryptic, Pratt lays his head on the steering wheel and groans.

His watch says 3:56PM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, nervously eyeing the word count jfc


	8. Chapter 8

Time is definitely not his friend today.

With his face still smooshed against the steering wheel, Pratt watches Hudson watch him as she pumps gas. She hasn't asked him any questions yet—probably because the passenger window is still up—but he can practically _feel_ them emanating towards him. Little disturbances in the air around him, invisible pointed fingers pressing into him, prodding, _Spill it, Staci, what the fuck was that?_

He's got to come up with something and come up with it fast. Whitehorse and Hudson both are already on to him, and with this new clue left at her feet it probably won't take Hudson long to connect the dots. And from there if he doesn't thoroughly explain himself things'll only get worse.

She'll get Whitehorse involved.

Or good God, his mother.

Beating his head against the steering wheel doesn't help him at all. It just smarts, bright and stingy along the top of his cheekbone. Not even enough to distract him from Hudson's fucking laser eyes.

Did she see the hair tucking? That's entirely too intimate of a gesture, couldn't say anything less than _If we aren't already fucking, we probably will be soon._

What did Jacob's face look like as he walked away? He's a hot-cold asshole, maybe even fucking winked at Hudson as he passed. Constantly throwing Pratt's shit into a tailspin, never giving him time to crash into the bumpers and finally _stop_. Making him worry about keeping their relationship hush-hush and then going and doing the shit he just did.

What if he times it right and rips out of the parking lot before she gets back inside? They've got a full tank now, he could probably get a ways away before Hudson has the opportunity to commandeer a vehicle and chase him down.

Damn thing has a GPS locator in it, though.

Plus, she'd probably actually fucking kill him.

When she's finished pumping gas, Hudson hops back into the passenger's seat. She smells like gasoline, sharp and pungent. He wonders if she got some on her hands or her boots.

“Y'gonna tell me what that was, Staci?” she asks as he starts the car, big sister voice in full swing. Seat belt on and body turned towards him, one of her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed.

“I, uh, don't know what you're talking about,” Pratt mumbles. The intersection he rolls up to is a threeway, but traffic is so light in this area there's not even a proper traffic light. Just a strip of ever-flashing yellow yield lights, blinking lazily at him. _Yield, please. Or don't, there's never anyone fucking here._ He rolls to a complete stop and checks for oncoming traffic even though there's clearly none, using the sliver of time to try and steel himself. Maybe formulate a plan.

Jacob _has_ to know what kind of position he's put him in. Yelling “tonight” with Hudson right fucking there and standing entirely too close, too _comfortably_ near a cop car. Half fucking _inside_ the cop car. People don't _do that_ unless there's bodily fluids being exchanged somewhere along the lines. There's literally nothing else Pratt can do but tell her, and it's all because Jacob didn't flee at the first sign of danger.

He's happy he didn't run. Elated. Thrilled.

But God damn is he unprepared.

“What were you doing with Jacob Seed?”

“Is it illegal to talk to the general public? Are we not allowed to casually fraternize with civi—”

“For real? C'mon, cut the shit.”

He drums his fingers against the wheel before progressing through the still deserted intersection. The sound of his blinker tinkling away makes him think of the Jeopardy clock. If he doesn't answer within the time limit, Hudson might reach across the divider and throttle him.

_What is, I'm fucking him?_

“Jacob, uh. Had a question?”

“Did that question need to be asked from your lap? I could see y'all from inside.”

Busted. Pratt can hear the metaphorical prison bars slamming shut.

“Staci.” It's just two syllables, but she draws them both out. Drawls them, lets them drip and pull from her lips like stretched out bubblegum. STAAAAAY-SEEEEE.

“I don't know what to tell you!” He's pressing down a little too hard on the gas, pushing just past the speed limit. It's a bit of a rush truth be told, knowing he's breaking the laws he's sworn to uphold, knowing there's no one out there who'd stop him unless he was going moronically fast.

Jacob's influence, no doubt. God, he's got it bad. He has to consciously keep himself from smirking.

“You've been off since I got back. Squirrlier than usual. _Bitchier_ than usual, like—like. Oh my God.” After a quick look over at her, Pratt can see Hudson's eyes bugging out of her head. Her mouth is open, jaw slack. He can practically see where her tonsils used to be.

“Oh my God what?” He's not sounding hysterical, definitely not. Knuckles white around the rim of the steering wheel, the speedometer's needle steadily creeping ever upward.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Hudson wheezes, “pull over.”

There's a rumbling, grinding sound. It might be the squad car, old as shit as it is, but it might also be the cogs in Hudson's head turning and turning. Assessing the evidence she's got in front of her, police fucking work, the picture already mostly complete. Jacob Seed himself printed on the missing center puzzle piece that ties the entire image together.

“Why? I'm not pulling over, Joey!” This conversation shouldn't be had in a moving vehicle, where he can't put any distance between them because they're both along for the same God damn ride. If he pulls over and gets out of the car, she'll just follow him. Not to mention that looks suspicious as fuck.

“Pull over or so help me _God_ ,” she says, bracing herself against the dashboard with her arm as he barrels over a pothole.

“I'm not—”

“Pull over!”

“I'm _not—_ ”

“Pull over right fucking now, Staci!”

He does. He's holding his breath as he slows to a crawl. Crunching over dirt and gravel until they're at a complete, ungodly stop, shifted into park. He hesitates for a moment, trying to decide whether to leave the car on with its hazards blinking or just—

Hudson makes the decision for him. She turns the car off with an expert flick of her wrist and rips the keys out of the ignition. Carelessly throws them on the floorboards on her side of the car. They bounce off the toe of her boot and jingle before settling.

“You're _fucking_ Jacob Seed!” she shrieks.

“Joey. Jesus Christ, listen—”

“He's so old!”

“Hey!” Pratt snaps.

“How does that—how does that even _work_? He's such a fucking asshole, Staci,” Hudson says. There's a line of tension between her eyebrows, and her hand still splayed on the dashboard is clawed, her nails digging in to the faux leather. Her eyes though, fuck—she looks so God damn concerned. Muddy brown, murky like the waters of his almost-relationship. Big and wide, reflecting his image back at him. “You can do so much better than him, Stace. Really. You can.”

“Don't—don't, Jo. He's not that bad, I swear. I swear, hey! Look at me. He's—he's Jacob, but he's...” Pratt offers her a watery smile, desperate to ease the pained look from her face. “I like him, Jo. Like—a stupid amount. A truly fucking stupid amount. I'm talking like—like butterflies and cartoon birdies and and and....fuck, Jo.”

She quietly watches him as he rests his head back against the steering wheel. At this rate, he's going to become part of the damn plastic. Ridges on his face, pressed into his skin. Biting into him like fire had into Jacob.

“You can do so much better,” she says again, her voice soft.

“I want _him_ , though. Could I—could I find someone nicer? Younger? Less damaged? Probably. But I – I don't _want_ to, Jo. I want him.” Outside their vehicle, a sedan older than their cruiser leisurely creeps by. The driver, an elderly woman in a surprisingly large sun hat, waves at them cheerfully, like she can't see the Mexican standoff happening inside.

“Swear you'd tell me if _anything_ goes wrong?” Hudson leans forward, left hand wrapping around her headrest, right gripping tightly at his knee. “If he so much as _looks_ at you wrong, you tell me.”

“He's—he's good, Jo. Promise.” His hand finds hers and squeezes.

The hunted look on her face has mostly cleared, but there are some residual stormclouds hanging in her eyes. “Why didn't you tell me?” Voice still soft, still quiet, but twinged with hurt. He hates how it sounds, how it makes his chest ache. Knowing he put that sadness inside her.

“I didn't know—still, uh, still don't know if it was okay? He's—we don't talk about stuff like this. I'm not even sure where we're at, to be honest. But we've got a, uh...a date. Tonight.”

“You were gonna dip out on us.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Where you going to tell us why?”

He bites his lip hard. Shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

“Jesus, Staci,” she breathes. Looking away from him, jaw working in fits. Her expression had softened, but now it's twisting again. Temperamental like a summertime storm, seemingly gone one moment and then sweeping back in harsher than ever.

Upper lip snarling up above her words, her hand leaving his person to sit heavily in her own lap, she hisses, “If he can't be honest with himself—”

“It's not that simple though. It's not—it's really not. I don't know how he feels about being out? I don't know if he _is_ out, or – or what.”

“What _do_ you know, Staci? Huh? What he fucks like? That he's a douchebag? That all you know?”

His cheeks burn. Clenches his jaw until the dull ache of it radiates up his face.

“Joey,” he warns.

“No! If you're not gonna watch out for your dumbass, someone has to! What would—fuck, what would your mom think? He's what—almost fifty? He's nearly your mother's age, Christ, Staci!”

“You don't know him!”

“Neither do you!”

“I'm _trying_ to.”

“Staci—”

“Stop, Joey! Just stop.” They're both breathing hard, staring at each other. There's so much God damn tension in the cab, thick and soupy in the air like humidity, it should be illegal for the world outside their bubble to look so serene and beautiful. If there was ever a time for a storm, it'd be now. “I'm an adult, okay? If this turns out to bite me in the ass—”

“I'll kick _his_ ass,” she hisses.

“I like him. I really do. He's not—he's not just a flashy douchebag who speeds too fuckin' much. He's helpful, and – and takes pride in his work. Funny. Sweet in his own way. He thought the blood on my shirt was mine and almost had a mini-stroke trying to figure out where I was injured. Give him a chance, Jo. Please? For me.”

“I don't like this,” she grumbles, but her lips quirk up the tiniest amount. “But I love you, you little shit. And I'm serious: one misstep and I arrest his ass. Throw the whole fuckin' book at him.”

“I love you, too,” he says, returning her weak smile.

“I won't blab, but Whitehorse is on to you.”

“God, yeah he is. That's why I was in his office earlier. He didn't pry too hard, though.”

“You bring Jacob around this weekend. No ifs ands or buts, Staci. He comes and faces the firing squad himself.”

“Can I—can I have the keys back now?”

-

At the station, Hudson keeps true to her word. Whitehorse asks for a rundown of the situation with the mare and she gives it to him, Pratt dutifully chiming in where needed. He watches them as they regale the story, flicking his eyes back and forth between them, like a father assessing his children.

“Horse got you good, didn't she?” Whitehorse asks, smiling softly at him.

“All over me. Larry offered me some of his government-contaminant free soap to wash the blood out, but uh...hard pass.” Hudson snorts at him. The gaze they share isn't 100% fixed by any means, but it looks like she's steadily coming to terms with this whole Jacob thing. Even if her reaction was a little more explosive than he had anticipated, it's nice having her know. Less stressful on him to have that edge taken off.

“Listen, Pratt. Why don't you take off early? Close to the end of your shift, anyway. Go soak that shirt and get ready for your, uh...date.” He chuckles, sharing a look with Hudson. His smile seems to grow when she rolls her eyes and snorts again. Conferring with his other child, making sure everyone's on the same page.

“Really?” He's up and collecting his stuff before he even finishes the word, not wanting to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Don't get too wild now. Got the night shift tomorrow, 'member that,” Whitehorse calls at his retreating back.

-

Pratt spends the extra time freaking out.

On the drive home? Freaking out. Unlocking his front door? Freaking out. Throwing his probably slash most definitely ruined button-up into a sink full of cold water to soak? Freaking out.

Standing in the shower working shampoo into his hair? Freaking out, the wet edition.

He stands in front of his closet mirror like he did that very first night, staring at his reflection. His hair is dripping and stringy, even when he rakes a hand through it and slicks it backward. Neck and hips dotted in fading marks. The towel wrapped around his waist is ripped in a few spots and bleach-stained in others, and even that's got him freaking out.

Is it nice enough? Does he look good enough?

Like he's not already had sex with Jacob more than half a dozen times. Like Jacob's not been in his house, slept in his bed, rooted around in his electronics and other miscellany to fix Pratt's shit when he couldn't sleep.

“You got this, you got this. Fuck—okay, okay. Calm down, Pratt. You've got this. Don't – don't freak out.”

It helps, but only marginally. He rips the closet door open so he doesn't have to see himself anymore and begins going through his wardrobe. The bottom half of his outfit is a no brainer: tight jeans, the more ass-hugging the better—even if this is a no-touching in public kind of movie date, he still wants Jacob to _look—_ and a pair of boots. Not his work boots, and his Timberlands are a little too butch, but maybe those cognac leather ankle boots Hudson bought him for Christmas? What the fuck did she call them, chukka or something? What does that even _mean?_ Some hipster shit.

It's the shirt that keeps tripping him up. Does a t-shirt say he's not putting enough effort into this? Does something collared say he's putting too much?

God, he's going to have a mental breakdown over a fucking shirt.

He closes his eyes and plunges his hand into the closet, hoping for the best.

What he ends up with is soft, well worn and comfortable. When he opens his eyes he sees the green and black flannel he'd worn the first night. He takes a moment to think about Jacob's hands beneath it, pushing it up his abs. How Pratt himself had pulled a button loose in his haste to remove it, to get skin on skin.

Wonders if Jacob will remember it as he slides it on over his head.

Done getting ready besides a little primping in the bathroom, a splash of the cologne he wears and a handful of product to run through his still-damp hair, Pratt flops back heavily onto his bed and checks the time on his phone. While still progressing ever forward, time isn't going nearly fast enough. It's only 4:37PM—he's still got over an hour until Jacob pulls up.

With the original time frame, they'd already be cutting it close. Assuming Pratt was even ready by 5:50PM, it takes roughly forty-five minutes to get to Polson on a good day, and even though it's a Wednesday they'd hit a decent patch of five o'clock traffic on their way over. That puts the trip just under an hour or so, which possibly leaves them enough time to get fast food, scarf it down quickly, and still be at the theater in time to find decent seats.

They could have an actual dinner now. Sit down somewhere and share a meal without having to rush through it or eat in a car.

They eat at Pratt's house all the time, either something he's cooked or one of them's ordered. He doesn't know if Jacob can cook, but true to his word he'll eat pretty much anything Pratt throws at him. Doesn't like raw tomatoes, though.

This'll be their first excursion out together as a unit. Eating together in public seems innocuous enough, but what if it's too much too fast?

Figuring this conversation will be easier via text—if Jacob even replies at all—Pratt begins typing with his thumbs.

 **Pratt 4:39PM  
** do you wanna get food first?

 

 **Pratt 4:39PM  
** i'm free now, we could head out a little earlier.

Pratt flings his phone away, hears it bounce into his pillows and slip behind them. Jacob's work schedule is erratic, appointments taking him all over Hope County. Sometimes he's only got one or two clients to see, sometimes he's attempting to bend the laws of physics to see as many people as he can, propelled forward by his bullheaded determination and flagrant disregard for traffic laws.

He's probably working right now. Using the same tools he lugs into Pratt's house when he aimlessly fixes things, the same tools Pratt has gently pushed aside on a few occasions to get Jacob's attention back on him. Screwdrivers and wrenches thumping against the rug in his living room as Pratt urged them away, out of Jacob's reach, and replaced them with his own body. Jacob's quiet huff of amusement, his soft utterance of _Killin' me_ brushing against Pratt's cheek as he climbs into his lap, project forgotten.

Just thinking about it all makes Pratt's breath catch. Idly he rubs at his stomach, hand beneath his flannel, fingertips dancing along the ridge of his leather belt. He could take the edge off, just him in his room. Thinking of Jacob, what a surprise.

His phone vibrates harshly against his headboard.

 **Jacob 4:42PM  
** I'm in the mountains right now. Won't be able to get to you until 5:30

Disappointment sits heavily in his stomach, snuffing out the tendrils of arousal that had begun to stir. He sets his phone screen down on his chest and sighs, staring at the off-white ceiling, the fan as it lazily chops through the air. Unfortunate, but it's okay. It really is. Even if it tastes bitter on his tongue, heavy and acrid. He's about to send back _that's cool_  and an appropriate emoji when his phone vibrates again, strange and wriggly through the flannel.

 **Jacob 4:45PM  
** I assume you're ready? I'll see what I can do

No one's there to see his stupid grin, so Pratt lets himself indulge in it and the warmth it brings. God, he's got it bad.

-

What Jacob ended up doing is probably illegal.

He's on Pratt's porch at a quarter after, pressing annoyingly on the buzzer. When Pratt throws open the door, his hair is damp and wind-swept, curling at the edges. Bright and fluffy and so fucking red, gleaming in the afternoon sun. He smells sharp and clean, must've showered at the speed of light and broken every single God damn speed limit to get here so quickly. Possibly the sound barrier with the way he drives.

Pratt's full to practically bursting, near swooning at the thought of Jacob Seed absolutely hauling ass to see him sooner.

He's off the clock, anyway. What Jacob does when he isn't there to witness and bitch at him isn't his business. Can't charge him for crimes Pratt has no concrete evidence of, right? All of his previous speeding tickets not withstanding.

The full body once-over Jacob gives him has Pratt simultaneously shying away, bashful, and preening, Jacob's gaze ravenous and hungry. He leans against the doorframe as casually as he can and smirks at Jacob, lip clamped between his teeth.

“Y'know what? We can just skip the fuckin' movie. Watch it on DVD or something. I wanna peel you out of those clothes,” Jacob rumbles.

Pratt shivers. As appealing as that is, he's been promised an excursion. He's not going to let Jacob duck out of it now. To bolster his resolve, he slides forward into Jacob's space, lips nearly flush, and clicks the door soundly closed behind him.

“After,” he breathes. His lower lip catches on Jacob's as he speaks. “Feed me.”

The front door is sturdy against his back as Jacob gently backs him up against it. His legs lightly urged apart to make room for Jacob.

Pratt can feel his resolve withering. Can't let it happen, can't can't can't. This is the _next step—_ he can get dick any old time once he's locked this down good and proper.

“Fuckin' killin' me,” Jacob whispers. His lips drag along the top of his cheekbone, ghost down the shell of his ear. There are teeth pressed against his jawline when Pratt exhales shakily around a gasp and swallows hard. Jacob's teeth razor sharp, the only thing keeping them from ripping him open is the fact that Jacob's got them clicked closed in a grin.

“Need energy to keep doing that. Need food—Jacob, fuck, stop, c-can't keep marking me, asshole—to s-supply the energy to keep doing that.” There's nowhere to go, but Pratt squirms anyway. Jacob's not wearing any cologne or aftershave, nothing artificial to his scent but the citrusy notes of his soap and the spicy scent of his deodorant, but just the smell of Jacob outright has his resolve continuing to crumble. He needs to get out from under him, needs to get them on the road, but instead of pushing Jacob away, his hands curl into the cotton of Jacob's raglan top.

“I got somethin' for ya that's got _plenty_ of protein, Peaches. All natural, too.”

“Really, Jacob? Really.”

“Never heard you complain about it before. Know you love having my dick in your throat. Could have it again, right now, right here.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Jacob's just fine, baby.”

Pratt giggles, fucking _giggles_ , and wow that's the last straw. He forces himself to drop his handfuls of soft black cotton. Admittedly he detours, gets himself a grope or two in. Jacob works too hard on maintaining his physique for Pratt _not_ to admire and fondle.

But he's been promised a date. He's going to get the fucking date.

He presses hard on Jacob's chest. Jacob's lips audibly _pop! w_ hen they leave his throat, probably leaving behind another fucking hickey. It's like fucking an octopus, Jacob's too long limbs all over him and his insistence on marking him.

“That line's older than you are, Jacob,” Pratt snarks, but he's smiling. Red all in his cheeks, heart beating a rapid, lovesick tattoo against his chest.

Jacob staggers back a foot or so and laughs quietly. Chuffs, like a God damn big cat. Sexy and low in his throat, amused and slightly disbelieving. If anyone should be called Peaches, it's Jacob—slinking around like Hope County's famous mountain lion, quiet for all his bulk. Pissy and swiping sharp claws at everyone, flashing huge incisors. Easily tamed with food and the right touch.

“Food. Movie. _Go._ Or I'll get my keys and you'll have to sit pretty and watch me do the fucking speed limit,” Pratt taunts.

“The horror,” Jacob deadpans.

-

Polson may be bigger than Hope County, but it's still not big.

Their dinner choices are limited. Mostly fast food, and while Pratt's not against them on the whole he is _not_ going to let Jacob get away with taking him to McDonalds. Fuck. That.

They end up at a Chili's in the middle of town, because Golden Corral is shit and he's not ready to play Russian Roulette with the quote-unquote Mexican restaurants littering main street that look like they've barely passed their health inspection. They've got plenty of time to spare before their movie—Jacob drives like a fucking _demon_ , bobbing and weaving expertly through traffic. Staring down people who drive under or right at the speed limit, not even having to honk his horn or cuss at them to cow them into moving out of his way.

Not like anyone's gonna mess with him in his big as shit lifted dick-extension of a truck. With the tires on the damn thing he could probably roll up and over most of the sedans that hurry out of his path.

They'd hit five o'clock traffic and still managed to get to Polson in under the forty-five minutes it usually takes Pratt _without_ any roadblocks.

“Never been here before. Don't go to many restaurants,” Jacob mumbles, looking around the room. Menu in his huge hands, a glass of water sweating near his elbow. “Why is it so fucking dark?”

“Need me to find your bifocals and a flashlight? Read the menu to you aloud, huh? Maybe I'll buy you one of those headband lamp things miners wear.” He can't see Jacob's mouth over the menu hiding his face, but he can so readily imagine that shit eating grin. What once was a dimple fighting valiantly to reemerge under Jacob's warped skin, a strange soft little fleeting pockmark.

When the hostess had sat them, Jacob had insisted on sitting on the side of the booth with his back to the wall. Pratt doesn't question it, doesn't fight as he slides in opposite Jacob, but being able to maintain his sight lines eases a tension in Jacob's shoulders Pratt hadn't noticed before. It has the added advantage of having his left side presented first to the dining room, where his scarring is less dramatic.

Their hostess had startled a little when she'd seen them, but their waitress just rolled with it. Smiled and asked them for their drink order, _Welcome to Chili's!_

“Keep talking shit, Deputy Bratt. I'll leave you here and go watch the movie my fuckin' self,” Jacob says, blue eyes wicked and sharp.

Deputy Bratt—that's something he's never heard before. He's got to physically keep himself from ugly laughing at it, surprised and unselfconscious.

To keep himself from doing just that, Pratt keeps on. He smacks his menu down on the tabletop. It's loud in the restaurant and the stupid thing is weirdly laminated so it doesn't ring out as soundly as Pratt was hoping, but just the motion alone has Jacob's gaze zeroing in hard on him, waiting to see where he's going with this. “Mr. _Seed_! This is a family establishment. Threats and crass language will _not_ be tolerated.”

Speaking over each other at the same time, leaning in towards each other.

“I'm gonna give you something to tolerate—”

“Promises, promises, promises—”

“We decided yet? I can circle back 'round if you two need another minute,” the waitress says, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. She could've knocked over every table on her way over, dropping plates and spilling glasses and smacking old women, but all of their attention is on each other. Her voice shakes them out of their moment, has both of their backs pressing firmly against the vinyl of the booth. Jacob's bare elbow squeaking against the tabletop as he drags himself up and away. “Boys night out, huh? Girlfriends at home?”

With slightly unsteady hands, Pratt picks up his menu. He's not touching that one with a ten foot pole, not without Jacob taking the lead. Answering the way he wants, the way already on the tip of his tongue, could end very badly for him—could just fucking end, period. The ball's in Jacob's court, and he lets him know as much with his eyes. Soft and reserved, deferring, allowing Jacob to set the scene. He could very well let her believe what she wants to believe, refuse to correct her and just take her lead, and while the thought alone has his stomach churning—it is what it is.

“Y'could say that,” Jacob answers.

Y'definitely could, Pratt just bitterly wishes they didn't have to.

Jacob smiles at her, slow and sure, and the effect on her is immediate. Looser shoulder, hip and breasts jutted out just a little more. Idly Pratt counts the number of buttons on her pink and white flannel and tells himself to keep track, to check back on how many more are undone when she returns later to check on them.

They talk mindlessly for a few moments before Jacob places his order. It's all buzzing in his ear, droning in and out with the golden oldies playing distantly over the multiple TVs broadcasting different sports games. Pratt follows suit right after, willing his voice normal, not to give away the gentle, stinging hurt in his throat.

When they're alone again, Jacob's smile drops. He looks at Pratt curiously, head turning to the side. Assessing him like he's one of his gutted electronics, looking for which wire to clip, which screw to work loose to get to the problem area. “You're mad,” he says, as if it's that simple.

Pratt makes a noncommittal sound and takes a sip of his water.

“I can call her back. Correct her and get us kicked out of here,” Jacob hisses.

“Kicked out? For _existing,_ Jacob? Jesus,” Pratt says incredulously. On the TV screen to his right, a particularly vicious tackle has the ref blowing hard on his whistle. “It is what it fucking is, Jacob. Just—just. I'm not gonna fight with you in a God damn Chili's like some passive aggressive suburban mom.”

“Gonna fight with me through the movie then, huh? Be a fuckin' drama queen?”

“Promise you'll barely notice it when you keep a seat between us for Jesus,” seethes Pratt.

“What do you want me to say?” Jacob forcefully unwraps his silverware to give his hands something to do. Slams the napkin down on the table then each utensil, _shing shing shing_. The unnecessary force, the petty _violence_ behind it almost has Pratt bursting into laughter.

“It is what it is,” Pratt says again. Eyes back on the football game where the teams are in huddles, mapping out their plays. Deciding on a course of action and sticking to it, even if it's not unanimous. “You made a choice. I'll, uh, I'll live with it.”

“And you would've chosen different, Pratt?” There's a weird warble to his voice, like a string was improperly plucked. Blue eyes burning, burning into his.

Pratt doesn't say a word. Doesn't have to. Lets the sad, twisted excuse for a smile on his lips speak for itself.

-

It's still cold between them by the time they've purchased their tickets, dinner practically silent and the drive to the theater punctuated only by the purr of the truck's engine. Pratt buys both of their tickets with a near snarl to the unsuspecting kid in the ticket booth, then snatches them up when they're offered and, embarrassed, seeks the relative safety of the dark interior of the building.

They paid separately for their meals, and while Pratt's typically a huge fan of going Dutch—well. Well.

They skip concessions entirely and proceed immediately into the theater. Pratt hadn't expected a huge turn out, had foreseen a few diehard Thomas Harris fans littering the back row, but the theater is completely empty besides them. Ugly aged maroon and purple seats vacant, one after the other.

Even so, when Pratt follows Jacob to his desired seat Pratt makes sure to keep a space between them. For Jesus, for Jacob's delicate closeted sensibilities, for Pratt's own foolish hurt to uncoil and spread its wings, to lick its wounded pride. Jacob huffs but makes no move to rectify it.

 _Silence of the Lambs_ came out before Pratt was even born, older than him by a year, so there are no movie previews to screen beforehand. One minute the lights are as high as their tension, the next they're sitting in darkness and the fuzzy black screen before them is flickering to life.

Pratt gets comfortable, pulling his feet up along the back of the chair in front of him. Normally when he and Jacob watch TV, he's turned towards him, attempting to initiate as much contact as possible. This time there's so much space, this God damn frozen lake of Jacob's issues and Pratt's hurt, that Pratt shifts so his knees are pointed away, not towards.

He's tempted to pull out his phone and text Hudson, but she'll know something is up as soon as he does. Texting someone in the middle of a date screams _problems_ , and he can't have Hudson preparing to storm the trenches on the very day she finds out about him and Jacob.

This is hopefully just a road bump. A temporary road block, a fully assembled closet dumped in the street, fallen off one of those large flatbed transporter eighteen-wheelers racing up and down the interstate.

They're thirty minutes into it when Jacob heaves a great sigh. Pratt looks at him out of the corner of his eye but doesn't outright acknowledge him. Chews his lower lip and re-situates himself, attempting to refocus on Jodie Foster's face on the big screen.

After another ten minutes, Jacob mumbles under his breath _Fuckin' Christ_ and moves to his feet. He's back down before Pratt can worry about being abandoned, this time in the seat directly beside Pratt.

“Be careful, someone might see you,” Pratt can't keep himself from whispering. There's no one else in the fucking theater, and they're sitting so far back in the rows of seats that even the people in the processing booth can't see them. But it's something to wound with, to irritate a still bleeding sore.

“You gonna do this the entire fucking movie?” Jacob whispers in his ear. Close, too damn close. Lips practically against his earlobe, warm and damp.

“I dunno what you're talking about.” He's seen this movie before, but now it's all running together—Clarice in the storage locker, the senator's daughter in her car. Can't focus with Jacob so close, leaning up against the armrest.

Jacob slides the armrest divider up and presses fully against Pratt's side, following him even when Pratt leans hard against the other one, pigheadedly trying to maintain space between them.

“Trying to watch this, Jacob,” Pratt mumbles. He's staring at the screen and taking nothing in, absorbing nothing but the body heat Jacob radiates and the searing brand of his gaze.

“What would you have done differently, huh? Honestly. Expect me to whip out a fuckin' rainbow flag or some shit?” Jacob looks down as Pratt begins curling his fists against his thighs. He taps Pratt's knuckles, snorts meanly when he pulls his hand away like he's been burned. “C'mon, be a big boy and use your fuckin' words. Usually can't get you to be quiet, now I can't get you to—”

“I don't—don't expect anything of you, Jacob.” Voice so quiet Jacob has to lean in to hear him over the movie. God, he'd been so excited for this and now all he wants is for it to fucking end. “It is what it is, I told you that, but what use is it maintaining this – this façade? You coulda brought the DVD over to my house and and – avoided all of this.”

“Figured you'd want—”

“What I _want_ is for you to tell me what this is. Are we just casually fucking or – or what? Because you're sending all kinds of fucked up signals, Jacob, and you're giving me fucking whiplash.” Breathing hard, the stench of old popcorn and spilled soda that's stained into the floors, the fabric of the chairs, curling in his nose.

Jacob's breathing just as heavily as he is, nostrils flaring, blue eyes narrowed into slits.

“Hudson knows,” Pratt says, “had to tell her after that stunt in the parking lot. I wasn't – I _wanted_ to tell her, but only when you were ready. But you're not ready, are you? Are you ever gonna be ready, Jacob?”

“You're askin' a lot of me, here,” Jacob whispers. Again with the mixed signals, Jacob brushes his fingertips through Pratt's fringe until he turns his face away.

“Am I?” A theater employee enters the room with a flashlight in hand. This far away, Pratt can't make out much, but he looks young, mid-teens maybe. Curly black hair and big glasses. He shines the beam in their general direction, the only inhabitants in the room, and then leaves as soon as he came.

Surprisingly, Jacob doesn't fly away from him. He can feel Jacob tense up, breath locked in his throat, but otherwise no movement. His exhale is loud, shaky.

“What do you want from me?” Jacob asks. Something like desperation in his throat, clunky and awkward.

Everything. His time and his effort and his steady, talented hands. That throaty laugh and cocky smirk, even that pissy sneer he gets when something doesn't go his way. Jacob's truck parked in the grass of his lawn and not in his driveway, even though it pisses him off. Another set of boots by the door. Red hairs in the shower drain.

“ _You_ , stupid.” Pratt meets his eyes, trying to convey his own desperation. The emotions he's been struggling with since this whole Thing began, small and bright and Good inside him even when it stung, even when it hurt.

“Can we go?” It's Pratt's turn to lean forward, to strain for the words Jacob mumbles into his shoulder.

“I'm following your lead here, Jacob. You wanna go, we go.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you shouldn't, Staci.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I GOTTA SUFFER, Y'ALL GOTTA SUFFER. we coulda had it all (i.e. theater head) but Someone is a Douchebag and i'm not naming any names but we all know who it is
> 
> i'm a HUGE hannibal/thomas harris fan (i even have a hannibal themed tattoo!) and my dumbass straight up BLANKED on the order of the movie version of silence, so uh...miss me with scene accuracy, i played the vague card instead lol
> 
> also: thank y'all to everyone who's reached out, here and tumblr and fmsdfklasmflk i luv y'all


	9. Chapter 9

They drive back to town in silence. It's less hostile than the drive from the restaurant to the movie theater, but they more than make up for its absence in awkwardness. Tension thick and oppressive in the air, keeping them well separated on their respective sides of the cab. Pratt spends most of the ride with his head against the window and an arm around his midsection, watching the rolling hills go by. Deer frolick through tall grasses and around taller trees, brown smudgy blurs in the growing darkness. They're not going as fast as Jacob would usually drive, weighed down by the tension looming around them like fog, but they're still doing well above the posted 65MPH speed limit.

Jacob himself is locked tight in his head. The few times Pratt shifts in his seat to get comfortable and steals a peak at him, Jacob's working his jaw, eyes so focused on the road it's like he's got blinders on. Unease radiating up and down his profile.

Pratt would pay actual money to be able to peak inside that head of his. Slice along Jacob's forehead and peel back his skullcap to gaze upon his vexing brain, to poke around at his innermost thoughts. They need to talk about what's going on between them now more than ever, but the thought of opening his mouth to ask any clarifying questions scares him to death. He _wants_ Jacob, thinks of him constantly, has to keep himself from texting him with each and every inane thought that flies into his brain—like he would to Hudson, or Naomi, or a _loved one—_ but the scene at dinner shows how out of sync they are.

What if putting a name to this splinters them further? What if it forces them to realize they're not on the same page because they're reading from entirely different books?

They're in his driveway before he knows it, still well under the typical forty-five minutes it normally takes Pratt to make the drive. He snorts softly as he rubs at his face, pressing his fingers into his stinging, heavy eyes. Exhausted even though it's still so early, not even nine o'clock.

“Somethin' funny?” Jacob rumbles, voice thick with disuse.

“No, not really,” Pratt answers.

They sit and stare at the front of his house, listening to each other's breathing as the engine quietly purrs. Neither wanting to make the first move.

After a few heartbeats of silence, Jacob sighs. Quieter and less aggressive than in the theater, but sounding just as drained as Pratt feels.

“Do you want me to go?” When Jacob turns to look at him, he looks every bit his age. Hangdog face and disquieted blue eyes. If not for this aching chasm between them, Pratt would try to soothe him. Touch his face, cradle it in his hands. Make him laugh, press his lips to Jacob's until Jacob was melting beneath him.

“Yes,” Pratt whispers. Listens to Jacob swallow hard, watches as his face shutters before he turns away. Jaw working again, clench release clench release. Pratt swears he can hear his bones creaking in the hush. “And no. I don't—I don't know what I want. Need to know what _you_ want to figure out—and I – I don't know what you want, and that's the problem.”

“Pratt—”

“Do you want to be with me?” He hates how fragile and small he sounds, how much he's putting himself on display. Naked and exposed and raw right before Jacob's eyes, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Showing some of his hand prematurely, the aching hurt in his voice whispering out just how invested he is in this, in Jacob's answer.

“Pratt.” Short, clipped. It's Jacob's turn to scrub at his face. He scratches his nails through his beard and looks at Pratt almost imploringly.

“It's a yes or no question. It's simple. Really. You want this, or you don't. If you want this—if you want _me—_ we can...we can work through this. If this is just...fucking to you, I really, really need to know.” Pratt takes a deep breath. Holds it in his lungs until they burn, until his head is light and swimmy. His exhale is jagged and shaky and he hates he hates he _hates_. Clenches his fists until there are bright pinpricks of pain stinging in his palms.

“It's not that simple, Staci, and you know it.” Jacob turns his face, his body, so he's facing forward. Hands loose on the steering wheel. Broadcasting his answer even if he's not wholly aware of it. Maybe he is. For how mouthy Jacob Seed is, most of his words are empty and meaningless, but his body language usually rings true. Maybe this is as close as Jacob can get to the heart of his admission, and he just hopes that Pratt will take him at face value and go.

“I want to be with you,” Pratt says quietly. There's a loose thread at the bottom of his flannel, its tail dragging along his thigh. He wraps it around his index finger to occupy his restless hands, looping and looping it until it cuts off the circulation to his digit.

“You shouldn't,” Jacob tells him. The casual certainty, the almost parental disapproval in his tone has Pratt ripping the thread clean off his shirt and frantically pawing at his seat belt to free himself.

“ _You_ shouldn't be telling me what I want or don't want,” he snarls, “just fucking tell me you don't want this and be done with it.”

“Fuckin' wait a minute—Pratt, Jesus Christ, calm down—fuckin' _stop_.” Jacob presses down hard on the lock button when Pratt reaches for the door. He presses it again when Pratt unlocks it from his side, right before Pratt can get his hand on the door handle. The second time he tries it, Pratt keeps one hand on the handle and uses the other to press the button, but Jacob's finger pressing fully on his own button overrides the locking mechanism.

With a deep breath, Pratt releases the door handle.

“Thank you,” Jacob huffs.

He takes it back as soon as Pratt begins lowering the window. Reaches bodily across the divider to get to Pratt, strong grip on his bicep yolking him backward.

“You are _not_ climbing out my window, you crazy little asshole!”

“ _I'm_ the asshole? _I'm_ the asshole!”

“You—need—to—stop.”

“ _Make_ me,” Pratt hisses. With Jacob's focus on his arm, Pratt seizes his moment. He quickly unlocks and opens the door, but can't slide out of the truck like he wants to with Jacob still stubbornly holding on. It's funny, Jacob's doing everything but verbally ending this relationship and yet here he is physically barring Pratt from leaving. It's infuriating, it's _confusing_ , and it doesn't do anything to soothe the aching hurt in his chest. “Let me go, Jacob.”

“No.” Jacob's got his entire upper body over the divider, one leg in the wheel well and the other bent in the driver's seat, like he's preparing to vault out after Pratt instead of using his own fucking door. “You need to listen to me—”

“Need to listen? I do nothing but listen! And wait. Wait for you to define this, wait for you to tell me what we're doing, because I _do not know what you want_.” He tugs hard, trying to break Jacob's grip. Jacob just tightens his hold, aching pressure building up in his arm. Strong enough to mark, five perfect little bruises in the shape of Jacob's fingers, so different from the ones gifted to him on his throat. “Do you know how fucking crazy you drive me? I want to be with you all the time, Jacob. I want to - to talk to you and and share things with you. And I don't know what this is to you. What _I_ am to you. Are we just fucking, Jacob? Is that all that this is?”

At the end of his overdue explosion, Pratt sits staring at Jacob, breathing heavily. Every inhale, every exhale, rattles wetly in his chest. He _hates_ it, the injustice of being upset to the point of tears while Jacob just blankly looks at him.

“I want to be with you,” he says again, each word shaky and pained.

“It's _not_ that easy,” Jacob says. “No, you fuckin' wait right here. Listen like you say you're listenin', okay? It's not, Staci—I'm so much older than you. I've got issues, so many fuckin' issues—family issues and PTSD issues. Issues with my fucking 'sexual identity'.” He scoffs harshly, finally moving his hand from Pratt's arm so he can press the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

Pratt doesn't budge an inch, even goes so far as to make sure his breathing is as quiet as possible. Afraid he's going to break this spell, that Jacob will tailspin again and lock himself away before they can excise this wound.

“Where and when I grew up being a faggot got you killed, and it ain't much better now, okay? Why would you want to be saddled with all that, huh? You're so young, you should – should find someone your age who won't spectacularly ruin the first date you go on.”

This might be the most Jacob's ever said to him at one time. Certainly the most he's ever opened up about what's going on in that head of his.

“This was never supposed to happen, but you – God, you kill me. Drive me nuts. Flashy little smartmouth brat of a cop, not afraid to tell me to go fuck myself as politely as possible. Knew if I – that I wouldn't stop at just the once, and I was right. Held off for four days and then I saw you out on patrol. Laughing at something that blonde deputy said and I—fuck.”

Slowly, so slowly, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Pratt reaches across the divider and pulls one of Jacob's hands from his eyes. Beneath the tips of his fingers Jacob's blood is pounding, fear and adrenaline clunking messily through his veins.

He laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to Jacob's middle knuckle. Does it again when Jacob makes a sound in his throat, disbelieving and raw and pained. Like he can push all of the good feelings Jacob births in him straight into Jacob's bloodstream, so he can see how genuine and Right this all is.

“I want to be with you.” Third time's the charm, right? Pratt mirrors the watery smile Jacob sends his way, presses it against their joined hands. “I've got baggage, too, Jacob. Family issues and self-worth and a bunch of other shit. Store yours with mine, I've got plenty of room in this house.”

The smile still on Jacob's face twists with bitter sadness. “I want to be with you, but I don't deserve you.”

This isn't a road block they can surpass in just one evening, but they're making headway. If Jacob doesn't feel like he deserves him—well, they're just going to have to change that. Show him he does, each and every day. Prove to him this is worth fighting for, wash away his doubts like the tide coming in to claim the land that rightfully belongs to the sea.

“Stay the night. We won't—not...not tonight. But I want you around. Want you here. Follow my lead, Jacob.”

-

After separate showers, they meet in Pratt's bed in sleep clothes. Curled around each other, Pratt's fists tight in Jacob's t-shirt, Jacob's nose in his hair. There had been a brief discussion about watching TV, or even trying another movie, but after a shared look they had decided against it. The dark is soothing, healing, and with just the sound of the box fan turning in the window and each other's breathing, they have a moment to calmly collect themselves and find their footing.

Despite the exhaustion weighing heavy in his limbs, it's too early for Pratt to fall asleep. Jacob's breathing is steady but not sleep-even, and as if to further bring that point home Jacob pulls him in tighter, rubbing absent circles into Pratt's hip.

“I'm, uh,” Jacob mumbles in the darkness, partially muffled by Pratt's curls, “sorry. About dinner. The movie. All of it. It was stupid. I didn't think.”

“It's okay. You can make it up to me at Hudson's this weekend.” When Jacob tenses against him, Pratt hushes him quietly. Presses first his lips against the pulse in Jacob's neck, then his grin when Jacob curls his fingers in his t-shirt. “Hudson and her _girlfriend's_ house. Just the four of us. They already know we're—” Sleeping together? Trying to cobble together a relationship? “They already know. We can just be ourselves.”

“I'll try my hardest not to have you attempting to climb out a car window to get away from me.”

Pratt doesn't tell him it's _Hudson_ he should be worried about, just presses another kiss to Jacob's throat.

-

Neither of them have to work early the next day. Pratt's got the night shift tonight and Jacob's only appointment is around four o'clock, so they spend most of their day in the house together, licking their wounds. Sweat pants and drawn curtains and ringers turned off.

He'd been in bed when Pratt had woken up, clearly not sleeping himself but still there, not even up fiddling with his tools and one of Pratt's electronics. It warmed him, made his lovesick heart hammer in his chest, and while last night he had been too emotionally raw to have sex with Jacob there was no stopping him in the morning. He'd needed the reaffirmation of this Thing between them spelled out in the medium they both knew best, the one facet of this relationship that had never failed them.

Sleep warm, wrapped in Jacob's scent and presence. Heartened to see Jacob still there, in his bed where he belongs. Needed Jacob pressed up against him, hands tight and frantic on each other.

“ _Jacob, Jacob—please, please, please.”_

“ _Sh, sh. I got you.”_

-

From his perch on the kitchen counter, Pratt watches as Jacob flips through the newspaper, squinting to read the smaller print of some article on the business page. Lines appear in his forehead to match the crows' feet around his eyes, but the scarring on his face camouflages them. You've got to be staring pretty hard to differentiate them from his burns, but Pratt makes no move to hide his staring. Scoops a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, muttering to himself when some of the milk dribbles down his chin.

“When was the last time you had your eyes checked?” Pratt asks, indicating Jacob's person as a whole with his spoon.

“Probably sometime in the nineties,” Jacob snorts. When he looks up, Pratt is gawking at him.

“In the fucking _nineties_ , Jacob? You mean you've been squinting at 10 point font for the better part of thirty years? Doesn't your insurance cover vision?” Pratt himself hasn't been in a handful of years, but he can read the fucking newspaper no problem. God, is that why Jacob speeds all the fucking time? Can't read the speed limit signs, so he just makes them up as he goes.

“I don't _need_ glasses, Peaches. I just need people to stop insisting on using such small God damn fonts,” Jacob says. He shakes his paper out forcefully, taps the back of his hand against it to make the page go taut. It's closer to his face when he starts reading again, but he's not squinting quite as badly.

“I think you'd look good in glasses,” Pratt hums. Something dark and sleek to bring out the color of Jacob's eyes. Not that he needs any help with that—not that _Pratt_ needs anything to attract his attention to those bright blue bastards. But he'd look good, and he's stop straining so God damn hard.

“Don't need them,” Jacob sing-songs.

“When was your last annual health screening?”

“God, do you want me to get my primary care physician to forward you my information?”

“Could you? That'd be more helpful than you're being right now.”

With a groan, Jacob lays his paper down. “Since I'm not going to be able to concentrate and _you've_ obviously got something on your mind, lay it on me, Pratt.”

Pratt slinks off the counter and into the chair directly beside Jacob. Neither of them say anything when his feet end up in Jacob's lap. “I'm just thinkin' there's a lot we don't know about each other, s'all.”

The look Jacob shoots him is dry as bone. Sunbleached, fucking baked. There are new lines on his forehead, not from straining to make up for poor eyesight, but from disbelief. “You think my PCP is going to answer all of your burning questions?”

“Nope, but it's a start.” Spoon scratching against the nearly empty bowl in his hands, Pratt tips it backward and sucks down the remaining sugary blue-green milk to avoid Jacob's withering glare. “I could pick your dick out of a lineup, but there's so much about you that I don't know.”

Jacob's hands are so warm against his ankle, the tops of his feet. Always ice cold, even when he's wearing socks. They Rasp quietly against soft skin, Jacob's worn and weathered from manual labor. “Can't you just ask me a straightforward question like a normal human being?”

He asked for it. Pratt takes a deep breath and sets down his bowl.

“Where were you born? Why did you move to Hope County? Do you only have the two siblings? Are your parents still alive? How long did you serve in the military? What branch?” Ticking questions off on his fingers, one after the other. Moving to the next hand when he runs out of fingers on the first. “Did you go to college, too, or just learn your trade? What's your favorite color? Are you planning on staring at me like that for the rest of the day?”

He's got nine fingers up before him. After a second thought about whether his college-slash-trade question was actually one question or two, Pratt shrugs his shoulders and lifts the final finger. Wiggles them all in front of Jacob and grins when Jacob rolls his eyes.

“Do you want to take notes, you little brat?” Jacob huffs.

“Answer my questions first, then I'll answer yours,” Pratt sing-songs. Jacob pinches the sole of his left foot and he jerks it back a little, but he figures he deserved that one. It's easier to coax things out of Jacob when he makes a little game of them, when the spotlight isn't so harshly shined on the delicate, sensitive spots he tries to hide from the light of day.

“There's no way in hell I'm remembering all of those questions, or the order, Jesus—”

“Just tell me about yourself.” Quieter, a little more reserved. Doesn't want to show Jacob just how desperately he wants this information. To _know_ Jacob, not just his body.

Jacob rubs Pratt's feet and ankles as he talks, like he needs to keep himself occupied. He makes eye contact which is reassuring, though Pratt would readily take Jacob looking anywhere else as long as he got a peak at who Jacob Seed is.

“Born in Rome, Georgia. All three of us, Joseph, John and me, though John was raised mostly in Atlanta, and Joe and I—” Jacob peters off and exhales heavily through his nose. Something flashing in his eyes too quick to identify.

One question down and they're already snagging on Heavy Shit. No one in town knows much about the Seed brothers, where they came from or the honest truth on _why_ they came to Hope County, but Pratt's gotten close enough to Jacob to suss out that wherever they left, they left for good reasons. Pratt just didn't think it started all the way back at the beginning.

“You don't have to give me any of the more serious stuff just yet, Jacob. This isn't the Inquisition. I'd like to know all of it someday, but I don't need it all now,” he assures. Bumps his toes against Jacob's wrist to encourage him to start back up, the talking as well as the rubbing. He's got strong hands and he's already found one knot in Pratt's foot. If he didn't think it'd kill the mood, Pratt would ask him to pause so he could track down some lotion.

“Parents are long dead, and good riddance.” Said like he couldn't help himself, dripping with spite. His face twists up and everything, lip pulled back to show his teeth, but whatever's come over him leaves quickly as his face smooths out soon after. “Joined the Army after I—uh, after Juvie.” He looks at Pratt as if daring him to say something, but Pratt just scoots his chair a little closer and waits patiently. “Served five tours in ten years. Medically discharged in 2001 a couple months before 9/11.”

Another look takes over Jacob's face, this one far away and painful. He licks his lips slowly and stares at something just over Pratt's shoulder, like the mentioning of his service has trudged up some things he'd have preferred to keep buried.

“It's—I'm leaving out a lot. I don't want you to see all my crazy just yet, but if I leave it out there's too much missing from the picture.”

“Jacob—”

“My father was abusive.” Jacob gestures over his shoulder. Once the words start to leave him there's no stopping them, and Pratt's just got to hang on for the ride. Let Jacob drain these festering wounds and hope he allows Pratt to help clean and dress them. Kiss the gauze on top. “Beat the shit out of us all of my childhood, most of Joe's. John was real young, tried to keep him and Joe away from him. Big brother, gotta protect them. I poked the bear a lot to keep him off them and, well. Bears have fucking claws.”

He laughs, and Pratt wishes he wouldn't. It's hollow, almost mean, taunting, like Jacob's again trying to get in front of something to protect the things he cares about.

“CPS finally did their fucking job in like...God damn 1985. Ended up in foster care, and then this family said they'd adopt us and—” Three taps with the flat of Jacob's palm against the side of Pratt's ankle. Jacob's own legs are bouncing anxiously. “It was a shit show. Out of the fire and into the frying pan. So, uh. I burned a barn down? Landed myself in Juvie, effectively split up my God damn family and fucked up my face.”

There's still a lot of information missing, but Jacob's given him enough to get the miserable picture: child abuse and neglect and strife, all throughout his formative years. Assigning all of his worth to his ability to protect and shield, and he could never effectively do that as a child himself.

“Didn't have much of a choice after Juvie so I enlisted. Didn't know where my brothers were for a long time.”

“They wouldn't tell you?” Pratt asks softly. God, his heart hurts for Jacob, for the other Seeds. Shit just rained and rained and _rained_ down on them, and it looks like any help that came always came too late.

“Closed adoption for John, and Joe just swirled down the CPS drain until they spat him out at eighteen. I didn't see either of them again until I was...34?” Pratt closes his eyes. Jacob is only 46 now. If they were separated early enough for Jacob to go into Juvie before the Army, that means Jacob spent most of his adult life fucking _alone_.

“Jacob,” Pratt whispers.

“Nah, nope. Don't do that. Don't pity me. I don't need it, don't want it.” Despite the venom in his words, Jacob calmly lowers Pratt's legs before he stands up and moves to stand at the kitchen sink. Outside the window he can probably see where that moose messed up Pratt's fence weeks ago. If he's even seeing clearly. His arms are strained and taut against the lip of the sink, fingers grasping at it for dear life. Eyes gazing at the window but only seeing the movie of his youth running through his head. Black and white and red like anger, like blood, burned around the edges. 

“I'm not _pitying_ you, but I can be mad, right? Mad that the world fucked with you so God damn bad.” He aims to smooth some of that tension out of Jacob's body with calm hands on his waist, his back to Jacob's chest. Allowing Jacob to look where he needs, to center himself while still hearing Pratt's words, while drawing strength from Pratt's conviction. “This why you think you don't deserve me? Because life's never given you a single God damn thing you could hold?”

“Staci, I've only told you the bare minimum,” Jacob croaks.

“And I'll listen to the rest of it whenever you feel comfortable telling me. I'm not going anywhere unless I have no choice, Jacob.” Jacob does a funny little shuffle to turn around in the cage of Pratt's arms. Leaning back against the sink so he can look down cleanly at Pratt, his eyes dry but suspiciously red. “I wanna be good for you, _to_ you. You gonna let me?”

Jacob huffs out a quiet laugh. His face doesn't look quiet so troubled anymore, and the tension in his shoulders is back to normal Jacob levels. “Can't promise I won't fuck this up,” Jacob says.

“Just promise me you'll try,” Pratt returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is Way shorter than all the others, but it took me forever to get the tone right and i didn't want it to sit in my drafts any longer for me to agonize over. i'm currently on vacation so my whole writing flow has been thrown off, but i think i've found my footing here. dunno when i'll get the next chapter up (i'm out until sunday), but!!! yeaaaaah B-)
> 
> GOD also i just had the horrified realization that it's been almost thirty years since 1990. fuck. fuck!


	10. Chapter 10

 “You can ask me questions too, y'know. Doesn't just have to be you volunteering information.”

“Is it really 'volunteering' if—”

“Shut up and ask me a question, Jacob.”

After their moment in the kitchen, Pratt had quietly led Jacob back upstairs. They've still got several hours left until Jacob has go, even longer before Pratt has to get ready, so with the weight of hardship and honesty pressing down on their shoulders they had decided on laying down. Whether or not actual napping occurs is still up in the air, but Jacob is warm at his side, legs tangled with his own, huge hand splayed across his stomach rubbing absent circles into his skin, so Pratt wins regardless.

Jacob's beard is soft against Pratt's neck as he hums in consideration. It smells faintly of the beard conditioner Pratt had picked up specifically for him, woodsy and masculine, like cedar and sandalwood. When Pratt had showed it to him he had rolled his eyes and made some mumbled comment under his breath— _Do I look like the kind of guy that needs this shit?—_ but he's dutifully used it since, every other shower like the label instructed, his beard brighter and softer for the extra attention. He even comes over sometimes smelling freshly of it, like he'd caved and bought some for his own shower.

Seeing Jacob's stuff in his bathroom is a rush each and every time, his preferred bar soap and his beard conditioner together in one corner of the stall. Pratt forbids him from using shitty, cheap hair products while at his house so they only use Pratt's expensive salon stuff, but Jacob just rolls his eyes and goes with the flow.

He's got a stick of deodorant on the sink next to Pratt's, a wide tooth comb shoved in one of the vanity drawers. His toothbrush leaning against Pratt's electric one. Special lotion for his hands to apply after a hard day's work, to keep any harsher callouses and blisters from forming, tucked beside Pratt's moisturizers. Medicated lotion beside that to help with the scars on his forearms. Aspirin in the medicine cabinet since he's allergic to the Ibuprofen Pratt prefers.

He could have a drawer in the dresser, space in the closet, if he wanted. If Pratt offered. Jacob's not going to ask for that for himself, would bite his tongue and just lug clothes to and from his place to Pratt's, but now that they're making headway on this relationship thing, maybe...Maybe.

It's probably way too early for thoughts like that, but Pratt's already buying things with him in mind, food and toiletries and little trinkets that remind him of Jacob. There's a bumper sticker he saw at a gas station the other week that he'd seen and immediately thought of Jacob. Accidentally inhaled some of his slushie, too, McKenna pounding on his back to “help him out”, but mostly thought of Jacob.

_If you can read this I'm not driving fast enough._

It's sitting in one of his junk drawers in the kitchen, just waiting for Pratt to work up the nerve to fork it over. Jacob only has one decal on his truck and it's the United States Army seal, but the bumper sticker is so _him_ Pratt thinks he might actually apply it.

Surely he would if Pratt needled him.

_I bought this for you, asshole. Put it on your truck and think of me?_

“Fine, fine. You born and raised here?” His nails scratch quietly through the fuzz on Pratt's abdomen. It tickles, has Pratt squirming first away and then back into Jacob's touch. After the first twitch, Jacob starts to vary the pressure—deep enough to have Pratt hissing quietly through his teeth, then feather light, goosebumps trailing in his fingertips' wake. “Gotta be with that cornpone accent of yours.”

“Cornpo— _excuse me_? Which one of us is _actually_ the Georgia peach, huh?” The laugh that rises from Jacob's chest vibrates up up up against Pratt's shoulder. Jacob's breath warm on his scalp, mussing up his hair. It smells like the sugary cereal Jacob bitches about him eating— _“There's no nutritional value in this at all, Pratt.” “Let me eat my shitty cereal in peace, Jacob, God.”_ —but without fail always makes a beeline to, even when Pratt quietly left a box of healthier cereal beside it in the cabinet. “But yeah, raised out in Holland Valley. Just mom and me.”

“No Mr. Pratt to show you how to be a man?” Jacob snarks, but there's an undercurrent of gentleness there. Softening Pratt up to answer the question Jacob's sure will get his hackles up. “Got all that conditioner shit from Mama Pratt I bet.”

As usual any mentioning of his biological father, no matter how tentative and vague, causes Pratt to bristle right up. Hates him, doesn't want to _think_ of him. Doesn't need him, never did. Never will. But it's an honest question, and if Jacob can tell him about his horrible upbringing Pratt can give him this.

“No Mr. Pratt 'cept me,” he says, humming quietly. Dragging his own fingertips up and down Jacob's marked, freckled arms. The angry red scars on them have settled a little with the lotion Pratt makes him apply, but they'll never quite fade like the others. He doesn't know what happened to cause them, but he thinks it was chemical burning, not fire. The patterning is different, not bunched and blotchy like the ones on his right side or face, but slick and almost shiny. Spread thin and tight. “Asshole left my mother when she was pregnant with me. Didn't give me his last name thank God so I don't have to go around with that reminder all the time. And fuck you with the conditioner, okay? Say that shit again when you stop using it and you notice a difference in your hair.”

“S'okay, father figures are overrated, anyway,” Jacob mumbles. Pressing his lips just above Pratt's ear, gentle drag of teeth against the curled shell of it. “Your mother still alive?”

“D-Don't talk about my mother when you're doing that.” He makes no move to pull away, just bares his neck a little more and swallows hard. “She lives in California. Retired and moved out to be with this guy she met on the internet. He makes her h-happy—fuck, Jacob—and doesn't expect me to call him Daddy, so—no, really, I can't talk to you about my mom like this.”

His next question is asked so quietly Pratt almost misses it: “She good to you?”

And it _hurts_ , the pushed down longing for parental love thick in his voice, the need to know that parents _can_ be good and loving even if his own weren't. That at least one of Pratt's treats him right.

“She's the best,” Pratt whispers. He thinks about what life would've been like if he had had parents like Jacob's, abusive and unloving and vile. Like McKenna's, a little too free-loving and loose with their parenting style, more friend than parent, or like Hudson's who disowned her for years after she came out. He'd raged long and hard against a father that wasn't even there to see it, against a world that demanded too much but never gave enough, and his mother was calm and collected through it all, her support and love for him unwavering. A bastion through his turbulent teens. She busted her ass to give him everything she could, taught him to always fight back and go for what he wanted.

Rolling over, Pratt turns to face Jacob. He huffs out a laugh when Jacob's arm just slides around his waist casual as you please, palm in the dip of his lower back, fingertips fanned across the top of his ass. For his sanity's sake, he moves Jacob's hand to his hip and leaves his there on top.

“Play your cards right and you can meet her one day. I think she'd like you once she warms up.”

“Hmm. Am I older than her? Don't think she'll warm up to that, Peaches.”

“No, you're not older than her, Jesus.”

“How's she gonna feel about her little baby Staci shacking up with a man almost twice his age?”

“She's gonna feel disappointed when I'm _locked_ _up_ for killing you if you call me that again. And she'll probably be a little concerned but...she'll come around. She'll see how much I like you and give into my demands like always. Maybe, uh. Maybe instead of telling her your age outright I'll just let her, uh, use her eyes when you eventually meet.”

Jacob looks over his face like he doesn't quite understand how they got to this point. Sunlight in his hair and warmth in his eyes, bundled up under Pratt's ridiculously poofy down comforter. His fingers shift beneath Pratt's and entwine them. The angle is weird, but somehow they make it work. Pratt would wax poetic about how it's a metaphor for their relationship if it didn't have his heart going around in his chest like a firework. Zipping and zagging against his ribs like a God damn xylophone. “Gonna make me cause a scene, huh?”

“Just a little one,” Pratt admits, “but I...I want to be with you, Jacob. We'll make it work.”

He makes a considering noise and squeezes their interlocked fingers. “When's your birthday? Seeing as you already know mine, s'many times as you've seen my driver's license.”

“October 30th, 1992.”

“God, why did I ask that? I'd already served two tours by the end of '92. I've got shirts older than you.”

Pratt leers. “Any of them fit you as well as I do?”

Slowly, their joined hands again move to the small of Pratt's back. They push forward to encourage Pratt closer, tucked more firmly against Jacob, as if there's much actual room between them with how they're sprawled and tangled.

“There's one that gives you a run for your money,” Jacob says, making a show of weighing the two with his facial expressions. Head rolling side to side, lips pursed and shifting like he's actually mulling it over. Fucking dramatic. Pratt's chest aches with the fondness eating him alive. “But you're prettier. Warmer.”

Extracting his hand from Jacob's takes a little coordination, pulling his arm back around from the weird angle it'd been in. While he slides a hand behind Jacob's head to bring him in closer, Jacob's slides down his back and grips lazily at his ass.

They kiss softly, a closed mouth press of lip to lip. Chaste and simple, like an end to their conversation. Against his lips, Jacob makes a barely there sound before deepening the kiss, his tongue petting along Pratt's. The fingers squeezing at him are no longer loose and casual but gripping him hard, pressing his lower half forward so they're completely flush. Jacob's thigh between Pratt's for relief, providing him a surface to roll his hips against. Slotting together like puzzle pieces.

Even as he's rutting up against Jacob, Pratt's pulling his face away. Not enough of an end to the conversation for this.

“No, no,” he whines, “we can't—ask me more questions. Tell me—tell me more stuff about you. Gotta put more mental distance between your first question and us naked and sweaty.”

The sound that leaves Jacob is somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Disbelieving and petulant, teasing and dickish.

“Just don't think about it,” Jacob says, “and focus on me.” Every other word punctuated by a squeeze or a roll of his own hips. There's a growing hardness pressing against Pratt's leg, and he _wants_ it, wants it on his back or on his knees or however the fuck Jacob will give it to him—but mental distance, he needs to firmly separate the ending of their previous activity from the beginning of their new, more athletic one.

“Okay, seeing as I do everything around here—my favorite color's green. I've, uh, fuck. I've got my undergrad in crimin—criminology from UM. My first car was a shitty Honda Civic. You are _not helping,_ Jacob, please.” It's not fair, Pratt just needs a little more to get with the program, but there Jacob is: hand sneaking down the back of Pratt's sweats, palm unbelievably hot against his bare skin. Hips still undulating, somehow getting Pratt's to join in without his express consent. Lured by the siren song he already knows so well, that plays quietly in his head when they're apart, just waiting for him to be able to touch Jacob again.

“I'm listenin'. Green. Useless, expensive degree. Crappy Honda.” Pratt squawks against him like he knew he would, riled up by his intentionally bitchy comment. The easiest way to narrow his attention down to a single element is to piss him off a little, Jacob's found. Plus, it makes the sex a little more aggressive, keeps Pratt from withdrawing his claws. “Keep goin', Peaches.”

“You're no hel—mm.” Right against his hole, the dull pressure of Jacob's index finger pressing just the tiniest amount. Not breaching him, God unfortunately not, just a small, aching reminder of what's in store. That fingertip drags along the face of his hole, making him hiss. Leg lifted and hooking around Jacob in a heartbeat, snapping his teeth against Jacob's throat when Jacob laughs at him.

“No, no, go on. Finish what you started.” Jacob's enjoying this entirely too much, winding him up so mercilessly. Clever fingers, two now, pressed against him. Petting for a moment and then in him just the bare minimum, thick fingertips touching along his rim. Too dry to do any more than this even if Pratt wants it now, but for how annoying it is, the teasing is working him up something fierce.

“I like spring and baseball and your _dick_ , Jacob, c'mon. Mental distance unlocked, please fucking proceed.” It doesn't take much convincing to re-maneuver them, Jacob on top of him between Pratt's spread legs, a solid weight pressing him into the mattress. This is different from what happened this morning, too desperate to take it slow, to do anything more than clutch at each other as they jerked each other to completion. This has his toes curling in anticipation, heat curling in his gut. Memories of how good this always is, how right it feels to have Jacob inside him.

Jerking off is good, is great, but this will always be his first fucking choice.

“Yeah? That all? What else y'like, Peaches?” While Jacob reaches over to fish in the bedside table for the lube and a condom, Pratt works at getting their clothes off. A strange feat with Jacob leaning away from him, but not altogether unmanageable.

The wadded ball of their clothing connects heavily with the blinds drawn on the bedroom window, but as long as it doesn't shatter the damn thing no harm no foul.

“I like you. Inside me, on top of me,” Pratt whispers in his ear when Jacob returns. Delighting in Jacob's shudder, in the way his fingers dig into the bottle of lubricant until Pratt distantly worries about it bursting, the plastic groaning quietly in Pratt's ear where it's sitting atop the mattress by his head. Loving how Jacob drops his weight carefully down on him.

“Tell me, Peaches, c'mon. So excited to run that mouth, put it to some use for me.” No time to swat at him for being a dick with Jacob reaching for a pillow to slip beneath his hips. Settled and elevated, Pratt's knees drop instinctually to give him better access when Jacob pours lube into his hand, working it between his fingers to warm it up.

With Jacob's fingers warm and slick at his hole, Pratt lets himself babble.

“Think of you in my squad car, what it'd be like if you fucked me in the backseat up against the cage. The filthy shit you'd say to me while the scanner is going off in the background.” That particular afternoon had made for an awkward ride back to the Station, willing his dick to _calm the fuck down_ even as he kept thinking about it. He was worried there for a moment that he was going to lose his job, walking into the precinct half-mast, but it had been yet another slow day and he had ample opportunity to calm down before anyone noticed him sweating bullets and valiantly attemptig to punch holes in the underside of desk.

The fingers inside of him are in as far as they'll go, curled and plunging into him. Scissoring every other thrust, familiar and thick but not what he _wants_.

“Fuck me so good, Jacob, fuck me stupid. So good to me.”

“Wanna be good to you. Tryin'.”

“You are, you are—God, fuck me already, c'mon, please. I'm ready. Want it, Jacob.” They should probably prep a little more, add some more lube and another finger at least, but Pratt knows what he's getting into. Wants the dull ache to remind him exactly where he's been, who he's been with. Make his suffering during the night shift a little sweeter.

It takes a moment to get the condom on with their bodies pressing as tightly as they are, but once he's sheathed Jacob wastes little time slicking himself and then lining up. The first press of Jacob's flared cockhead is always the most intense, the girth of it touching him everywhere as Jacob begins to fill him.

“Gonna be good, Staci. Fuck you good. Treat you good. Fuck.” Bottoming out with a groan, circling his index finger and thumb around the base of his cock and just holding for a moment to catch his breath. Pratt fluttering around him like a douchebag, grinning at the snarl he milks from Jacob. “Course, don't know if brats _deserve—_ ”

He lets his knees clamp hard around the trunk of Jacob's body, effectively locking him in place. For extra insurance, Pratt weaves one hand in the back of Jacob's hair and grips at his ass with the other.

“You fuck me good and you fuck me _now_ , Jacob.”

“Alright, alright, shit. Hold on.”

It's not much of a warning because of its vagueness. One minute Pratt's mostly flat on his back, pillow beneath him and Jacob heavy inside him, and the next he's being urged upward. Knees sliding up Jacob's hips, up his ribs, to rest over his shoulders as Jacob shifts from laying between his legs to kneeling between them. Pratt's body curled up, lower back and ass resting on Jacob's solid, spread thighs.

Jacob doesn't waste any more time, beginning his thrusts slowly and languidly before picking up speed. The position isn't the most comfortable one they've ever tried, but as Jacob begins fucking him in earnest there's no weird angles to hamper how deep he can go. Sinking home effortlessly each and every time, one arm braced beside Pratt's arm, fingers curled in the sheets, while the other uses Pratt's hip for leverage.

The headboard knocks quietly against the wall. If not for the stoppers on the feet of his bedframe, the bed would probably be shifting wildly instead of wobbling, scratching up his wood floors. Jacob's stupidly proud of it, grinning and laughing breathlessly with every thud. Stupid alpha male bullshit, but it looks good on him—flash of white teeth and those soft laugh lines around his eyes that make Pratt's stomach go all aflutter.

Too out of breath himself to rip Jacob about damage to his drywall—not even wanting to open the door for Jacob to make some innuendo about being able to fix both the drywall and Pratt's inner walls, the perv—Pratt just digs one of his heels into Jacob's back and lets the other bump lightly against his shoulder as he tries his best to thrust down onto Jacob.

From the bedside table, Pratt's phone begins vibrating. They'd turned their ringers off this morning, but duty _does_ occasionally call, so they'd agreed to leave the vibration alerts on. Pratt's regretting that now. Jacob doesn't entirely stop, but his speed drops significantly as he pointedly looks over at the offending piece of technology keeping him from concentrating.

“Do _not_ stop,” Pratt whines, “just let it go to voicemail. Don't care who it is.”

“What if it's the Station, huh?” Jacob asks. Dutifully he begins thrusting harder again, knocking the wind and all coherent thought out of Pratt as he struggles under the pleasure of Jacob striking over his prostate.

“There's—fuck—there's other cops. Don't care, don't _care,_ fuck me, Jacob.”

“What if it's your—”

“Shut up! Don't say it!” Digging his heel into Jacob's back, Pratt thrashes his head on the pillow. He thrusts down hard on Jacob's cock and moans as Jacob does, loving the way their sounds mix in the air around them. “Swear I'll – I'll go finish this my God damn self and then where will you be, huh?”

Jacob settles in again. “Right there, watching that pretty face shatter apart when you come.”

The phone eventually quiets and chirps a few moments later, indicating a voicemail's been recorded. Pratt only distantly hears it over the headboard, over his steadily rising sounds of pleasure. Over Jacob's near constant stream of filth, having picked back up the dirty talk baton.

“Love watching you come. Your eyes roll back a little, your mouth falls open. Practically see my name on the tip of your tongue but I've fucked all the air outta ya, huh? Can't catch a breath when I fuck you that good, just gotta hold on and take it.”

Can't rumble his words in Pratt's ear due to the angle, but they engulf him anyway, hot and vivid, so lewd. Pratt had always been a fan of dirty talk but it's so God damn awkward sometimes, unable to look at your partner afterward because some of it can be a little Too Much. But with Jacob it never seems to reach that point, even if he's got the filthiest mouth Pratt's ever been under. Maybe it's because it's Jacob, and there's such certainty in those strong shoulders, in the powerful thighs rocking him up the mattress. Maybe it's because he's never disappointed him in the bedroom so far, the only arena in which they're perfectly in sync.

He's right, though. The heat is building in his gut and Pratt's already struggling to form words to spit back at him, but the only thing he can scrounge up are punched out little sounds that claw their way out of his throat and sound like mostly chewed up swears. He just lets Jacob give and give to him, his body absorbing all of the pleasure readily offered.

His cellphone buzzes again, three times in quick succession.

“That your friend, baby? Worried about the big bad man you're seeing. Think she knows I'm knocking a hole in your wall right—fucking—now?”

Pratt manages to stare daggers at him for a moment before his eyes shut helplessly again. Jacob just laughs and laughs, fucked out and so damn attractive Pratt wishes he had the energy to surge up and taste that mouth.

He gets a hand around his dick and groans, clenching hard around Jacob. As he begins pumping his fist up and down himself, smearing precome down his length to ease the way, Jacob shifts down to better brace his weight and begins thrusting in earnest.

“Yeah, that's it. Lemme see, lemme feel you. Flutter so God damn pretty around my dick, fuck.”

Distantly, there's another dull buzz from his phone. It sounds so far away with all of Pratt's attention carefully zeroed in on the pleasure burning him alive.

Mouth open, eyes rolled back, Pratt comes.

“There we go. Now just hold on, yeah? Can you do that? Let me just use you up while you lay there bonelessly?'

“God, you're a menace,” Pratt drawls around a grin.

“Yours, though,” Jacob mumbles, words pressed almost silent into Pratt's leg still draped over his shoulder.

It doesn't take much longer for Jacob to find his own release. Erratic thrusts of his hips, more nonsense pouring out of his mouth. Pratt too exhausted to do anything more than lay back and take it after wiping his own semen off on the side of the bed.

When Jacob finishes, he urges Pratt's legs gently down. They flop uselessly when they touch the mattress, tingly from being up in the air for so long, from being manipulated around Jacob's body. He aches, but it's good—a series of bone-deep pulses of well earned exhaustion, in his ass and his hips and his gut.

Pratt's rocked out of basking in his afterglow by Jacob animatedly chucking the tied condom onto the floor, like he's throwing a God damn basketball or something.

“A _menace_ ,” Pratt repeats.

“Yeah, yeah. Answer your messages and set an alarm so we can go to sleep, I'm fucking beat,” Jacob says. Flops down like Pratt's legs had, throwing all of his body weight into the sheets. His head doesn't go as far down in the latex pillow as he assumed it would, and his face momentarily screws up in confusion as the pillow settles beneath him and then begins to rise, contouring to the shape of his face.

“Tire you out, huh? Gonna have to put some caffeine pills in with your Viagra.” Pratt tucks and rolls for his phone to avoid Jacob's swiping, monstrous hands. The ceiling fan swirling above them chills the lube still damp between his ass cheeks, but before Pratt can grumble and cover himself up again Jacob's draping his upper half across his lower back.

“Keep talkin' shit, Pratt. One of these days when I'm free of the siren song of your fantastic ass, I'm going to move your stupid cereal on top of the fridge and hide your step stool.”

**MISSED CALL 11:35AM  
MOM (:42)**

“Nope, not now,” Pratt mumbles to himself, feeling vaguely guilty as he swipes away the notification banner. He'll listen to it later and call her tonight while he's out on patrol, getting paid to play Candy Crush on his phone and contemplate his life choices.

 **JOEY 11:39AM  
** Answer your phone when your mother calls, asshole

 **JOEY 11:39AM  
** Should never have given you the food she sent over with us >:-|

 **JOEY 11:40AM**  
You better be asleep rn and not having sex with that ginger asshole or I s2g I will sic your mother on you!

 **JOEY 11:45AM  
** Call me when you regain consciousness, dickhole

“Anything important?” Jacob asks. You'd think their ages were reversed with the way Jacob continues to kiss and touch him. Even at 26, he's already come twice today and Pratt is _wiped_. If he intends to be halfway useful tonight, he needs Jacob to get off him so they can catch a nap.

“Nope. Get off me, asshole, you're heavy.” With a hand flailing in his face, Jacob bites him once on the globe of his ass and rolls off. “You work at—four? What time do you want the alarm set for?”

-

They set the alarm for 3:30PM, and like some freakish nightmare creature Jacob is up and awake after only the first alarm. Pratt had set five, one going off every three minutes. He doesn't do well with stupid alarms shrieking at him and needs them staggered so his sleep-addled brain will get with the program, and before this afternoon he had never had to set an alarm to wake Jacob up from anything. Jacob always up before him, tinkering away.

But Jacob is up and mostly content about being awake by 3:31. Pillow creases in his skin, hair all fucked up. It takes him a moment to disentangle their legs so he can slip from the bed.

It's all Pratt can do to disable the remaining alarms he'd set for Jacob before curling back into his pillow.

“You got another alarm set so you can sleep s'more?” Pratt's not sure if he dreams it or not, but he feels Jacob's warm hand against his face, thumb stroking softly over his cheekbone.

“Mmhm,” Pratt mumbles.

The rubbing stutters for a second as Jacob snorts, a strangely endearing and endeared sound. “I'll call you close to the time you should be getting up, okay?”

Realizing that Jacob is about to leave, Pratt struggles against the haze of sleep. Places his hand on top of Jacob's to keep him from moving before he's done.

“Have a good day at work,” he says, working hard to enunciate fully. It's worth it, struggling to breach the surface of awareness to see Jacob's face soften, to see that warped little dimple valiantly mark his face.

Jacob presses a kiss against his lips.

“Go back to sleep, Staci.”

-

**YOU HAVE ONE NEW VOICE MESSAGE. TO LISTEN TO YOUR VOICE MESSAGES, PLEASE PRESS 7**

“ _Hey, baby, it's Mama. Just calling to say I miss your voice. I know your schedule must be hectic, but give me a call when you can make some time? It's weird being away from you, Stace. Just wanna make sure you're doing okay. I worry with you being so far away, but that's my fault, I guess. Moved away—oh! Hiro's brother agreed to go in with him on the restaurant, you believe that? Wait. Where was I? Oh well. Call me, Staci! Love you, love you love you love you, mom.”_

**TO SAVE YOUR VOICE MESSAGE, PLEASE PRESS 7  
TO DELETE YOUR VOICE MESSAGE, PLEASE PRESS 9**

Alone in his bed, Pratt sighs and presses 7. He's only been up for a handful of minutes, having woken up to his phone buzzing against the tabletop even before his first alarm was set to sound. Waking up alone is okay when the alternative is Jacob's voice is in his ear, _“Time to get up, Peaches. Rise 'n fuckin' shine, you're on graveyard tonight. Want—uh, want me to bring you dinner later?”_

In the background, Pratt could make out other people chattering to each other. Someone whistles at the nickname and Pratt's cheeks go hot, has him squirming into the sheets. He imagined Jacob flicking off the whistler and was probably right, too, seeing as shortly after a chorus of laughter broke out.

One of these days, Jacob's employees will know who Pratt is, who Pratt is to Jacob. Who the real “Peaches” is, unfortunate title and everything.

Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but they're working on it.

Pratt plans on making sure of it.

Thinking of Jacob makes it easy to forget some of the guilt he feels at not calling his mother back as soon as possible. She knows he's busy, she's busy herself—and though he _should_ call her more, is it a crime to spend all his free time with Jacob? Or thinking about Jacob? Moping about him, sometimes?

Pratt intentionally moves on to the next topic in his head and gets in the shower again, just to wash off the sweat and lube and the remainders of sleep.

-

 **PRATT 7:03PM  
** hey, sorry about not answering earlier. i was asleep and didn't have time to text back before work

 **PRATT 7:03PM**  
also I Do Not appreciate Menacing and Vague Threats :-(

 **JOEY 7:05PM  
** Oh there was nothing vague about it. Plenty of menacing, tho.

 **JOEY 7:06PM  
** And unless you had a horrible date and drank yourself into a stupor there is NO WAY you're just now waking up to TEXT ME when I CLEARLY remember telling you to call

 **JOEY 7:06PM  
** Did it go ok? I'll kill him if it didn't

In his patrol car in the parking lot of the precinct, Pratt chews his lip and considers what to tell Hudson. She was on the morning shift and has graveyard tomorrow, so she'll be up for a little while longer to try and fix her sleeping schedule. Which means she's going to get meaner the sleepier she gets, so he really needs to choose wisely.

 **PRATT 7:08PM  
** it, uh...coulda gone better tbh but! BUT it ended great ;-)  
  
**PRATT 7:08PM  
** fuck why did it WINK i meant :-)

 **JOEY 7:08PM  
** That's fucking nasty, Staci

 **PRATT 7:09PM  
** THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT JESUS JOSEPHINA

 **PRATT 7:10PM  
** i mean that happened but like wasn't what i meant lmao

 **JOEY 7:11PM  
** 1) Don't call me that. I'm gonna legally change it to Joey and then sue you for slander

 **JOEY 7:11PM**  
2) That's still gross, I don't wanna think about Old Man Seed literally defiling you. Naomi just made me dinner

 **JOEY 7:12PM**  
3) Accept Jesus into your heart, you little slut

 **JOEY 7:12PM**  
4) Call your mom

 **JOEY 7:13PM  
** 5) He's still coming to dinner Saturday and he better smell like SOAP and HOLY WATER and not semen or I'm going to kill you both

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Pratt throws his phone into the passenger's seat and puts the car in reverse so he can leave the parking lot and actually do his job.

-

 **JACOB 9:01PM  
** You at the station?

 **PRATT 9:03PM  
** omw actually

 **JACOB 9:04PM  
** Gonna assume that means SOON?

 **PRATT 9:04PM  
** yes :-)

 **JACOB 9:05PM  
** I've got your dinner, I'll meet you in the parking lot

 **JACOB 9:05PM**  
Fried bananas and shit

 **PRATT 9:05PM  
** P L A N T A I N S P U T O

 **JACOB 9:09PM  
** Bananas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> making up for the short last chapter with some good ol' dickin' ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> anyone else writing porn in the guest room of their aunt's house in florida???
> 
> y'all can bug me on [tumblr](http://boneforts.tumblr.com) to make sure i write and eventually start on the other aus i'm mulling over. i dunno if i'll continue the other wip fc5 stuff i got goin' since j/s is killin me but we'll See.


	11. Chapter 11

Pratt's just under a minute from the Station when the car behind him flashes its light. He doesn't even need to look up to know it's Jacob—following too close and flashing his lights at a God damn cop car is a dead giveaway. The only other person in town with balls near that size is Sharky Boshaw, and tailing a cop isn't his M.O. No, that's illegally setting off fireworks in the gas station parking lot across the street from the Station. Middle of fuckin' February, snow tall and packed all around him. Nose bright red but no winter clothes on him, just that stupid green hoodie and his ratty ballcap.

“Why wait for fuckin' Ju-ly to celebrate our freedom? Wanna light one off, Deputy Pratt? Got one of them screamers you can have.”

“No, I really don't, Sharky. God damn, this is a _gas station_. I know—I know you have a Thing for fire—”

“Sure fuckin' do! You see this shit? God, gets me all—”

“Sharky! Jesus. You're gonna light the pumps on fire. Go blow shit up in the Henbane, okay?”

That little God damn pyro is probably balls deep in a bottle of whiskey right now. Casually lighting shit on fire in his trailer park as if they hadn't just cleared up another “misunderstanding” that would've fucked with his parole.

Pratt just grins and continues into the mostly empty parking lot.

Jacob saddles his big shit truck up beside Pratt's dinky, ancient Crown Vic. They meet at the tailgate, Jacob twisting a white plastic bag in the air. The handle twists and twists until it can't go any further before Jacob gently swings it back around.

“Pretty sure I remembered the shit you order,” Jacob tells him with a snort.

“Hi to you too,” Pratt laughs. Stupid thrilled that Jacob actually brought him something. Just saying he would made Pratt's heart soar, but to have Jacob here with what smells like— “Oh, shit. Is that—did you get me Cuban? You really meant it when you said you—well shit. I could kiss you right now.”

Jacob's face says that's probably not a great idea, even in the empty parking lot in the middle of the night. His smile has an awkward lilt to it, his eyes turned down. It's too dark to see if Jacob's got any sort of flush going on, not that his scarred face showcases it well to begin with.

Pratt's got enough heat in his face for both of them. He spares a look around them as quickly as he can, smile only faltering a little. Baby steps. “Not, uh. Not that I will. Thank you, Jacob. This, uh—thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Jacob says quietly. Rolls words around in his mouth before adding, “It's better for you than the junk food you usually get from the gas station. Potassium in bananas and all.”

“Plantains, Jacob,” he says, though his words lack bite. Knows Jacob knows the difference and is just giving him a hard time to find even footing again. “I'm gonna—go put this in the fridge. Thanks again.”

Jacob's pulled out of his parking spot and Pratt is almost at the steps leading inside when Jacob calls him back.

“You forget to give me something?” Pratt asks as he's rounding the front of the truck, twisting and untwisting the neck of the bag like Jacob had.

“Yeah, I did.” Luckily his grip on the handle is sturdy, because suddenly Pratt's being bodily hoisted up onto the step bar. He's got enough time to squeak out a _What the fuck_ before Jacob's kissing him soundly on the lips through the open window and then practically flinging him back to the ground.

Jacob's not looking at him when Pratt regains his footing, stumbling back a few paces before he's no longer in danger of falling on his ass. Probably a good thing, as the smile stretching his face wide would probably blind him. His lips tingle from the sudden impact of Jacob's against his own, but he'll happily take the tender lower lip if it means he gets dinner _and_ a kiss.

“Jacob,” Pratt breathes. Not really sure where he's going with this, but Jacob just laid one on him in the fucking parking lot of the Sheriff's Department. Granted, there's no one else out here and there's virtually no possible way anyone could've seen that, but it's the first time they've done anything like this outside of Pratt's house.

Finally blue eyes meet his own. The light coming off his speedometer and other gauges is too red to see if there's any color in Jacob's cheeks, the artificial glow even less help than the absence of moonlight, but Pratt imagines it's there anyway. He watches as Jacob bites his lower lip, attention rapt as the color bleeds back into it when Jacob releases it.

“Text me when you get off,” Jacob says quietly, “I'll probably already be up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

-

Because it's Hudson and she has no life, she shows up at the Station when Pratt's nuking his Cuban food in the microwave at 12AM. He doesn't hear her come in, too busy watching the “microwave-safe” styrofoam spin slowly 'round and 'round and thinking about Jacob like a twelve-year-old girl. He shifts restlessly from foot to foot while he shovels frankly too hot chunks of fried plantain into his mouth.

It's becoming an unfortunate habit for him, being caught unawares while eating his food, but at least this time he doesn't spill them on the floor. No, when Hudson slinks up behind him and whispers his name he just almost chokes to death.

The pressure with which she pats on his back is a touch too hard, penance probably for spending all his time with Jacob instead of her, but it's still more helpful than McKenna in the gas station. Wailing on him uselessly while he clears his airway of blue raspberry slushie, as if that would actually do anything to help.

He manages to swallow his mouthful and blink away the tears misting his eyes from where he'd lightly bitten his tongue. Calmly sits his food down and turns to look at her.

She's been up way too long, he can see it in the bags beneath her eyes. Puffy and irritated to match the gritty way she blinks at him, like she's trying to will away fatigue. Her traditionally tight over-the-shoulder braid is frayed and coming loose, spilling out wild and free against her neck. The sun's bleached her hair in places, soft chestnut and barely there auburn in a sea of inky black.

After a sniff at the air, she says, “Where can you get ropa vieja at this hour?”

She hefts herself up onto the dinky little county-issued kitchen table to his side. Starts swinging her legs, a flipflop almost slipping off her foot before she rights it. It's weird seeing her dressed so casually in the Station, black yoga pants and a half-unbuttoned red flannel. She's wearing a novelty t-shirt beneath it, white with a red neck and a multicolor decal on the front, _Let's Summon Demons!_ It's very Hudson, but within these walls or out on the beat, Hudson sticks close to the straight and narrow in terms of dress. Guess there's more wiggle room when she's off the clock and trying not to fall asleep too early so she's not dead on her feet for her own graveyard shift.

Pratt's feeling pretty okay, but he's still got a ways to go—five hours to be exact. By the end of this he'll be dragging ass like he always is after a graveyard, head fuzzy and eyelids approximately a million pounds, hands shaky from too much coffee, but he'll be able to sleep in tomorrow and work his regular 7AM to 5PM on Saturday.

“It's leftovers,” Pratt says casually. He resumes eating his plantains to occupy his hands. When Hudson reaches forward to poach one, he simply leans back to allow her better access.

She considers him while she chews, expression unreadable. The fact that there's a plantain in her mouth and cinnamon smeared on her lower lip detracts from the tough guy image she's surely trying to project.

“From when?” When she reaches for another one, he smacks her fingers with his fork but doesn't actually move to stop her. “You slept all day, and these are only marginally microwave-soggy. Not like they've been sitting in the fridge for a day.”

Luckily his mouth is clear, so there's nothing to obstruct his airway when laughter nervously bubbles out of him. He doesn't know why he's beating around the bush with it, she already knows about him and Jacob, but just thinking about the fact that Jacob willingly went out and brought him dinner makes Pratt's stomach twist and his face heat. It's a good sign, has to be, especially after the last disastrous dinner they shared.

He's considering just striking it from his memory. _Poof!_ No more waitress at Chili's with her hip cocked too close to Jacob's arm, no more empty seat between them in an empty theater. Just Jacob's lips mashed to his in an empty parking lot while the twisted neck of the plastic bag housing his dinner cuts off the circulation to Pratt's hand.

It's not that he wants to hide it or anything, but it's still tender and new. Theirs. He wants it to remain theirs, soft and secretive and _good_ , for a little while longer, cradle it in his hands and admire it. Give himself some time to admire and love it before any outside forces come in to pry in their business, to try and wedge them apart using Jacob's hesitancy and Pratt's insecurity.

He knows he'll crack as soon as Hudson applies enough pressure, though. Punch a hole right in the gooey center of him so his affection can bleed out all over the floor.

“You sure you wanna be a cop? Taking microwave analyses of my plantains, Jesus Christ. Your talents are wasted here, go be a CSI. Make better money, too,” Pratt mumbles. She tries to take a third piece and this time he _does_ stab her with the fork. It's only plastic so it doesn't go in very deep, but Hudson stares daggers at him as she licks her fingers clean. “Why're you fuckin here, anyway?”

“Can't sleep yet and Naomi has to work in the morning, so I'm _bored_. But back to you, Nervous Nelly. Where's the food from? Your booooyfriend bring you dinner?” The only sound in the little kitchen is the main course of his meal trilling its completion and the butterflies doing donuts in his stomach. Absolute fucking pandemonium, bouncing off his organs, rattling against his ribs. Parkour, doing tricks like in those fucked up Clutch Nixon specials his friends would watch on YouTube after they all got high. “Oh my God, he did!”

“Hudson, shut up,” he hisses. He doesn't try very hard to keep her quiet. She hasn't said his name yet, anyway, and even with his desire to hoard all of Their nice things and keep them to himself, it's nice to be able to actually verbally talk about this with someone. He just hopes she's not gonna ream him again.

“He brought you dinner? It took Nomz a solid two months to—Jesus, you housin' somethin' special in there?” She gestures to his ass as he indignantly squawks and heads to the microwave.

“Oh my _God,_ go home and let me eat in _peace._ And how do you know—”

“Staci, baby. I know how thirsty you are and I've, unfortunately, had to hear you wax poetic about his dick—”

“—Hudson—”

“— _Jo, you ever able to look at someone and know their dick is big? No, Staci, because I'm a homosexual and I don't spend a lot of time contemplating the sizes of dicks attached to men—_ ”

Much like the parking lot earlier, the Station is practically abandoned. The few other graveyard workers are out on patrol or on calls, waiting to be able to take their lunches. The only other occupied desk at the moment is that of the night shift dispatch officer, Carl, who gives Pratt the creeps. No one's bald spot needs to be _that_ shiny, okay? Buffed like a God damn hockey rink. But Carl's got headphones in and his alert settings on vibrate to notify him to any incoming emergency calls, so he misses the entirety of Pratt's frantic shushing and arm waving.

“Josephina!” The microwave beeps at him to remind him that the food's done. It can wait and cool down a little, Pratt's too busy attempting to smother Hudson with his bare hands. He gets one hand fully over her mouth before she fucking _bites him_ , but at least she's quiet when he retracts his stinging hand. “At the Station! Where we both work!”

“Please,” she snorts. “I could talk about going down on Naomi for a solid half hour before we run the risk of Carl peeling himself away from his sports highlights.” Regardless she settles down a little bit, though her grin is still pretty riotous.

“Je-sus.” The styrofoam is suspiciously soft when he removes it from the microwave. Might've nuked it a little too much. He sets it down on the countertop and opens it so it can cool down further. There's steam wafting hugely off of his food, delicious smells accompanying it, but he knows it's too hot to touch just yet. Still, he doesn't turn away from it. Continues to study it while Hudson brazenly stares at his back.

“How'd it go? Really this time. No gross ass quote-unquote accidental winky face.” Her voice is not just quieter, but softer. He'd been incredibly vague in his text earlier and she's probably been reading too much into it. Cleaning her gun, acquiring Jacob's address, just little best friend things.

“It was—” _Bad. Crushing. I almost climbed out of the truck window._ “—uh. It was.”

“That's _not_ an answer, Stace.” Her flipflops squeak on the linoleum as she patters her way over to him. Turns around and braces herself against the countertop with her forearms so he has no choice but to look at her.

That steadfast, gentle support has always been his undoing. Through shit with his Father trying to waltz back into his life, through his mother packing up and moving and leaving him well and truly alone for the first time in his life, through random every day trivialities, Joey Hudson has had his back.

Pratt sighs. “It wasn't great, Jo. He—he's really, _really_ in the closet. Played it off at dinner like it was some kind of boys' night out and I—”

“Being upset about that is justified, Staci.”

“I _know that_ , but I also knew—knew he wasn't, and I still—”

“No one ever said emotions were reasonable or logical. You two are in entirely different places in your lives and comfort zones, of course it's gonna rub you wrong when he just blatantly writes off what you have goin' on.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

“Retract those claws, Princess. I'm just worried you're more invested than he is.”

“I like him so fucking much, Jo,” Pratt whispers. Against the lip of the countertop, he drags the edge of his fingernails across the cheap laminate. Fleeting touches to get his mind off the thundering of his heart.

“Yeah, I know you do. S'what I'm worried about. Did you two _talk_ talk at all or just talk body some more?”

Pratt swallows. While they hadn't had sex after the date, they'd fucked twice the following day. But they had managed to talk a little, lightyears passed what they had before.

Jacob had called himself Staci's. Had called to wake him up, had brought him dinner, had kissed him in the parking lot. It's not an all out decree of their relationship, not standing on the roof belting it like Pratt still wants to, but it's so much more than interacting almost exclusively behind closed doors.

“Yeah, we talk talked,” he tells her. Dispassionately with his fork he pokes at his arroz con frijoles. Jacob had even remembered to get the right sides with his food, remembered he doesn't care for the yuca this dish originally came with. “God, I'm so fucked, Jo.”

With lightning quick fingers, Hudson steals a pinch of his food and shoves it in her mouth before he can say anything. “I'll talk to him about it Saturday.”

“God, could you not?” The last thing he needs is Hudson and Jacob attempting to go toe-to-toe while Pratt desperately tries to play defense. That much piss and vinegar in one room would be considered a biohazard. Probably seep into the earth and taint the veins of water running beneath the soil. “Seriously. _Seriously_. Don't—don't run him off.”

“Just a friendly conversation. I swear, Staci. 'Sides, he's gonna have to get used to it if he's sticking around.”

-

 **PRATT 5:03AM**  
i'm FREE

 **PRATT 5:03AM  
** i hope you don't expect me to be awake for long bc i'm planning on getting horizontal asap

 **PRATT 5:04AM**  
not even the fun horizontal, the near death horizontal

 **PRATT 5:16AM**  
guess you're managing to sleep after all! good for you

 **PRATT 5:20AM**  
there's a spare key beneath that creepy ass gnome statue hudson bought, if you still wanna come over you can let yourself in? if not i'll just text you when i wake up. i've got an alarm set for 12 so i don't fukc myself up for saturday.

 **JACOB 8:46AM**  
Your garage door is fixed. Properly this time. Now you can actually use the damn thing without screaming like a bitch and ducking for cover.

 **PRATT 1:30PM  
** uh EXCUSE ME for not wanting to get final destination'd

 **JACOB 1:33PM  
** Wondered if you'd ever wake up. What happened to noon?

 **PRATT 1:35PM  
** technical difficulties

 **JACOB 1:36PM  
** You hungry?

 **PRATT 1:36PM  
** STARVING

 **JACOB 1:37PM  
** Good. Order us something and i'll be over to take my lunch.

 **PRATT 1:38PM  
** :-|

 **PRATT 1:39PM  
** douchebag

 **PRATT 1:41PM  
** ordered

-

Friday passes simply, Pratt lounging around in boxers and basically doing nothing all day. Sometimes with Jacob, sometimes without. Appointments send him streaking back and forth across the County, some close and over quicker than Jacob expects, others further away and taking longer. They text a lot through it, Jacob's banter still dry and sometimes hard to parse, but Pratt's getting into the swing of things.

The lack of fanfare lulls Pratt into a false sense of security, a haze of watching TV with his legs in Jacob's lap and Dorito dust on his fingers as he feeds the both of them, of sending Jacob so many externally saved Snapchats that Jacob eventually breaks down and starts sending him random pictures of the inside of clients' houses, usually with captions like _What the fuck is this shit?_ It's not until he's climbing into bed that he well and truly realizes tomorrow after work Jacob's going to be having dinner with him at Hudson's.

Jacob Seed, in Hudson's kitchen. Present as his date, as his _Whatever_.

Jacob's not there to witness his minor freak out, out working late and having to work earlier in the morning than usual. Something about a formerly off the grid mountain cabin suddenly desiring power and repairs.

-

Sitting in his squad car, lights flashing brightly across the dented ass of a pulled over Volkswagen, Pratt keys in license plate information with one hand and texts with the other. Phone held low, well beneath the steering wheel. He's confident in his hands and abilities enough to keep most of his attention on the driver of the VW, whom he can see groaning and talking animatedly with her passenger. Though he does have to rewrite the word _dinner_ three times before autocorrect catches on.

 **PRATT 11:33AM  
** don't forget we have that dinner tonight!

He's not freaking out, he's absolutely calm.

Pratt swallows hard and shoves his phone into his pocket, wholly aware of its weight against his hip, the blunted edges pressing against his skin as he rights himself and prepares to issue a citation for expired tags.

“It's just dinner,” Pratt mumbles to himself, one foot out and on the pavement.

With Hudson. And Jacob.

“Just dinner.”

 

-

 **PRATT 12:07PM  
** it's casual, don't gotta dress up or anything.

 **PRATT 12:31PM**  
i get off at 5. you working late tonight?

Uselessly, Pratt spins in his desk chair and taps his pen against his front teeth. Jacob isn't the most punctual texter, but he's usually replied by now, if only to tell Pratt he might want to consider actually doing his job for once. Pratt isn't _nervous_ about the avoidance.

Still calm. Absolutely calm. Cooler than a God damn cucumber.

Whitehorse calls his name and he startles, the rubber sole of his shoes shrieking as he forces himself to an abrupt stop. The taste of ink, bitter and slightly sweet, flares out across his tongue. With a grimace he chucks the pen into the approximate direction of the trash can and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, Sheriff?” he calls back, still working his mouth to try and avoid the lingering taste. Mouth open wide enough to show the back of his throat and all four wisdom teeth perfectly nestled in his gums.

From her desk, Nancy snorts.

“Go do a lap or something. Christ, you're making me dizzy just watchin',” Whitehorse huffs.

 

-

It's been _all day_ and nothing from Jacob.

Pratt might be freaking out. Just a little. The barest amount.

Dinner with Pratt's friends—pretty much his only friends! And it's not like his _mom_ is going to be there, that would justify any potential avoidance and hesitancy, but she's not and even of Hudson _is_ scary...it's just dinner—doesn't seem like a huge step, especially when those friends already know. But Pratt's been mostly comfortable with his sexuality his entire life and this is all new to Jacob.

Maybe he's pushing to hard?

“No, this is love tapping,” Pratt whispers to himself. Catching the L Word, Pratt can feel his face heating and hunches his shoulders in attempt to hide the evidence. As if anyone can even see him, back in his squad car on the side of the road watching for traffic offenders to fall into his web.

“ _Not_ love tapping. Gently pulling. Coercive nudging, with only a limited amount of sexual bribery. There's no—no love. God, Jacob fucking answer your _phone_.”

 **PRATT 2:05PM (DRAFT)  
** cool, this works too!!!!!  
**(DELETED)**

Absolutely nothing, on his phone or in traffic monitoring.

 **PRATT 2:15PM (DRAFT)**  
if you don't want to go you can just tell me. i mean i'm not gonna be thrilled but radio silence is a dick move.  
**(DELETED)**

A car goes by him at 9MPH over. He's gonna pull them over and “give them a warning” instead of a ticket, mostly because he needs to keep occupied and blow off some steam. Needs the rush of power to temper some of the anxiety forcing his intestines into balloon animals.

-

He's sitting on the edge of Nancy's desk, lightly kicking his legs, when his cellphone vibrates. It's probably just Hudson again, but it _could be Jacob_ and just the thought of him finally, _finally_ ripping Pratt out of this horrible fucking limbo has him almost sprinting across the room.

The only thing keeping him seated is the emergency fire red nail polish bottle in his hand, which Nancy is forcing him to hold while she “performs surgery.” She'd flaked her polish closing one of her desk drawers, _God fucking forbid_ , and begged him over to remove the rest of the offending polish so she could fix her hands. Wouldn't even touch the bottle of acetone remover tucked into the bottom drawer, just pointed and _pouted_ and Pratt had crumbled on the spot.

Now, though. He kinda wants to vault the shit across the room, have red varnish arching through the air to mar their already scuffed up floors.

Another one. Pratt's practically vibrating.

“You done?” he asks, not bothering to hide his eagerness to get to his phone. Practically on the floor the way he's leaning, at least half his body jutted out towards his desk. His phone's face down on the desktop, revealing absolutely nothing, and even if it weren't, his eyesight is better than Jacob's but not _that_ fucking good.

“Hold your horses, Pratt. One last coat,” Nancy says sagely, delicately bringing the brush up the curved face of her nail. Bright red like a tomato, not like Jacob's red, a softer auburn that glows in the sun—

“Seriously. Five seconds, just lemme go grab my phone and I'll be right—”

“Shoulda brought it with you,” Nancy chastises, still diligently painting. He wants to scream it's not the fucking Sistine Chapel, it's a fingernail, but if he shows his ass like that Nancy will _drag_ ass. Bat her eyelashes and ask him to remove the rest of her polish so she can have fresh, uniform coats on all nine remaining fingers.

He watches her make another slow, careful pass. There's literally no difference in the nail's appearance, but apparently it's about polish integrity or _something_. Who the fuck knows.

Nancy hums a _done!_ and he's practically throwing the bottle into her fist, uncaring if it gets on her fingers.

At his desk, he holds the phone face down and takes a deep breath. He's been hyping himself up all day, hoping each and every text message is from his stupid maybe boyfriend, and getting bent out of shape when it's not. If it's not, then...then it's not. Jacob is obviously too busy doing _whatever_ to get back to him, Jacob obviously doesn't care enough about this Thing between them to attend one measly dinner in private.

Exhaling, Pratt turns over his phone.

 **JACOB 4:19PM  
** No reception where I was in the mountains.

“Oh,” Pratt says, holding the word in his mouth and drawing it out. _Ooooooooooh._

The cabin in the mountains he'd told him about yesterday. Off the grid, needed to be connected to it. Probably out of reach of cell towers if there's not even _power_ up there.

 **JACOB 4:20PM**  
I've got one more project and i'm done, should wrap up by 5:30.

 **PRATT 4:24PM**  
i'll wait for you at mine.

-

Jacob might not text back promptly—with cell service or without—but the man's usually painfully punctual. Which is why Pratt _might_ be freaking out again when he's not in the driveway by 5:35PM.

Quarter 'til finds Pratt pacing in his kitchen, biting at the dead skin around his thumb while he casually ignores a text from Hudson. The urge to text Jacob is there, as it practically always is, but after his almost-freak out earlier Pratt's worried about being overly dramatic and clingy.

Six o'clock and still nothing. The disappointment is so strong he can practically taste it, sitting heavy and bitter on the back of his tongue. Taste of nail polish on the side of his thumb, must've marked himself in his haste to get to his phone.

He's been ready to go for more than half an hour, his get-together contributions thrown in bags on his countertop, his hair now dry and curling around his ears.

There are three texts from Hudson, one from Naomi, and none from Jacob.

He probably got sidetracked or bogged down with other tasks at work. Might even still be in the mountains—Pratt's got no clue how difficult it is to institute something like that, maybe it was more work than even Jacob anticipated? Pratt's desperate to not let it get to him, to not be _that guy_ trying to micromanage his partner's—significant other? Boyfriend? Way more than friend with benefits?—life, but after a day like today he can feel his resolve start to waver.

He gives it until 6:15PM and quietly heads to his personal vehicle, tucked safely inside the garage. Having a functional garage door that doesn't moonlight as a guillotine is nice, but as Pratt tucks his grocery bags in the backseat and slowly makes his way around to the driver's side he realizes that while no longer trying to kill him, his garage door will always remind him of Jacob.

Shit, half of the things in his house Jacob's fiddled with and improved. What's he supposed to do when this eventually fizzles out and he's left with all of these little reminders?

“Getting fuckin' melodramatic, Pratt,” he warns himself, fishing out his phone. The cab of his Xterra is muggy and off smelling, like he needs to change his air filters. While he pulls up Jacob's text thread with his left hand he cuts on the air with his right, hoping to bypass the faint odor.

 **PRATT 06:18PM**  
i'm heading to hudson's. text me when you get this?  
**(DRAFT)**

 **PRATT 6:19PM**  
heading to hudson's.

He tacks on her address in a second text, sets his phone face down in the passenger's seat, and opens his garage door. It barely makes a sound as it scurries up the track, in better form than Pratt's ever seen it.

“Probably—I don't fuckin' know.” With a disgusted groan, Pratt shifts into reverse and presses on the gas before he's even turned around fully. It's his— _empty empty empty—_ empty driveway, there's nothing around for him to hit—

Except there is.

“He's—fuck, Jesus Christ, Jacob! I almost fucking ran you over!”

Pratt hits the breaks so hard his seat belt digs into his throat. He's breathing hard as he puts it back into park, and even winded and muted in the insulation of the cab, Pratt continues to curse and yell at Jacob, who's laughing to himself as he waltzes over to the passenger's side door. Probably can't make out a God damn word of what he's saying, but he gets the tone just fine.

“What the fuck is your _problem_?” Pratt shrieks as the door's opened. “You can't just—just do that! Why not call? Fuckin' _text_ like a normal human being? What if I had run you over, huh?”

“You weren't going that fast. Woulda barely hurt.” Jacob's breath is minty and his hair is clean and bright. Pratt's reeling in all of the air that'll fit into his lungs to rip into Jacob some more when he smells the beard conditioner, and all at once Pratt's anger begins to fizzle out. Washed away with that familiar scent, taking the majority of his anxiety and uncertainty with it.

He doesn't fight the fondness that takes its place, too exhausted to even bat it away.

“You coulda texted me,” Pratt mumbles, dragging his fingers over the gear shifter. Wrinkles his nose when Jacob chuffs a quiet laugh.

“Hey, none of that.” The skin of Jacob's left hand is soft and warm as it curls beneath his chin and lifts it from where it's tucked against Pratt's chest. He's even got _hand lotion_ on. “Figured you wouldn't want me trying to haul ass down the mountain 'n texting, Officer. Wouldn't be worth the effort if I wrapped myself real nice and pretty around a tree and left you hangin' forever.”

“That's not funny.” It's not. Pratt had thought about that, too. What if he had been complaining about the radio silence only to later find out Jacob's demon driving finally caught up with him?

“Hey,” Jacob says quietly, urging Pratt's chin further up, ducking his own face a little lower to force eye contact. “I'm here. Not gonna leave you hanging.”

“You sure?” Pratt asks before he can think better of it.

Jacob studies him for a moment. The cab's silent except for the gentle sounds of their breathing and the steady whirl of the air conditioner circulating cool air.

After a moment, Jacob licks his lips. Leans forward so they're nearly pressed against Pratt's own.

“Mostly,” he says honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK SO MUCH LONGER THAN ANTICIPATED I'M SO SORRY. i rewrote this chapter like twice, and halved it because while the first half i got to where i wanted, i'm prob gonna have to scrap the second half and re-work it to ge the tone right.


	12. Chapter 12

Hudson doesn't actually live all that far away, maybe a twenty minute drive on a bad day—trapped behind a moose or some asshole on their tractor casually moseying down the street, it happens to Pratt all the fucking time, unfortunately—but it feel like they're having to travel lightyears to get there now. His knuckles ache from how tightly he's gripping the wheel, blanched white at nine and three o'clock, and he's been chewing the absolute soul out of his lower lip, the skin raw and stinging as he continues to worry it between his teeth, mash it to pulp.

Jacob's calm as can be. Gazing out the window, body easily turned toward the view. The terrain around them shifting, flattening out, as they go from the lightly lopping foothills of the Henbane to the flatter stretch of Holland Valley. There's not actually all that much to see out here, not on the backroads Pratt takes to get to Hudson's, just a couple of old farms with rotting wooden fences and Fall's End twinkling in the distance, but Jacob seems entertained all the same. Much more interested in taking it all in than telling Pratt why he'd been so God damn late.

The serenity is driving him _nuts_ , like all of his anxieties earlier had been an overreaction or something. Little Staci Pratt, making a big deal out of nothing, mountains out of fucking molehills, as if this thing between them has ever been straight forward or clear cut. The smell of Jacob's beard conditioner and that God damn hand lotion that got transferred to his skin when Jacob touched him take the edge off, but it's not enough to do the entire job. His nerves are still aching and exposed, the protective rubber coating around livewires striped back, hiss hiss hissing as the air conditioner blows cooly, lightly against his skin.

“You're speeding, Officer. Better try harder to abide by the law, there.”

“Shut up, Jacob,” Staci mumbles halfheartedly.

“Oh, feisty, feisty. Gonna brood and spit venom at me the entire dinner? Sure put on a good show for Deputy Hudson and the missus.”

Pratt gingerly eases up on the gas. He was speeding, though nothing spectacular like the speeds Jacob approaches. Just caught up in his head, in his own little world and the drama trapped inside, Jacob looming at the top as usual, not realizing that his foot's pressing steadily harder and harder against the pedal.

“I'm not—I'm not gonna _spit venom_ ,” Pratt hisses. He can feel his nose and lip shifting in a snarl as the very last syllable leaves him and he grumbles to himself, still easing up on the gas. Not wanting to prove Jacob's point but unable to stop his body from reacting defensively.

Jacob hums, low and warm. Turns his body towards him and says, “Coulda fooled me. You gonna unpick them panties before we say hello?”

Sometimes the weird, wordy shit Jacob says just leaves Pratt reeling in the strangeness of it all. Jacob gives off this unapproachable vibe from a distance, giant scarred military dudebro who could easily break you over his knee, grinning maliciously the entire time, but the truth is he's mouthy and long winded, charming in a strange, almost aggressive way. Loves to have the last word, to pepper in as many strange sayings as humanly possible. Flashing his intelligence and worldliness and general fuckery all in the same two-step shuffle.

Pratt doesn't even think half of them are legitimate Southern idioms, though you could make a book out of the ones he doesn't know. Mostly he thinks Jacob makes them up on the fly, looking to see what sticks.

It's not like someone's gonna call him out on it, not with the way he's built.

He does need to work some of this off before they get there, though. Can't waltz into Hudson's home and present his kinda-maybe-not-really-but-hopefully-soon boyfriend to his best friend while quietly fuming at his side, locked tight inside his insecurities. Rattling an empty tin can against jailhouse bars hoping Jacob ponies up and bails him out one of these days.

“You gonna tell me what the hold up was earlier?” Pratt asks. Immediately Jacob hums again, re-situating his body so he's not facing Pratt, but at least he's not giving him his back, not facing out the window. Facing straight out the windshield, giving Pratt the left side of Jacob's profile, the minute twist to full lips. “I mean—was it shit on the mountain? Was it—”

“Shit on the mountain mostly. Took a bit longer to establish power and utilities. Didn't help that we had a hard time coordinating with the lack of service up there.”

“ _Mostly_ shit on the mountain?”

It's getting dark outside, shifting from sunset to evening black in a snap, the way it always does out in the country in the summer months. Daylight one moment and pitch the next, stars sprayed out across the sky bright and proud without all the light polution. His headbeams sluice through the rapidly encroaching darkness, and combined with the dying light of day he's got enough light to see the way Jacob's teeth pull in the meat of the inside of his cheek. Bite, bite, bite, release, Jacob wrinkling his nose next.

“Mostly, yeah. My brother called. Somethin' 'bout the new love of his life, like he doesn't have a new one every God damn week.”

They don't talk about the other Seeds. Pratt knows their names, hard not to with the splashes all three of them tend to make just by existing. Also knows what Jacob's told him when he opened up about the childhood abuse and his family being scattered to the wind, but otherwise he knows little else besides what everyone in Hope County knows about them. Jacob knows a little about Pratt's mother, knows just about as much about his biological father as Pratt himself does, but whatever little tit-for-tat games they usually partake in don't seem to extend far enough to truly broach the subject of Jacob's family.

Keeps 'em separate, their “relationship” on one side of the invisible line dividing Jacob's Real Life from this Secret Life, and everything else on the other—his work, his family, his past on the whole. Jacob's been moving the line in the sand further and further backward, giving him bits and pieces of himself that Pratt desperately holds onto with both hands and rigid, clawed fingers, but his brothers in the here and now have always been off the table by unspoken rule.

It's not that they're anywhere near ready for Pratt to meet Jacob's family, but it's a nice thought. Warms him on the nights when his bed's too big, too empty for a comfortable night's rest. He daydreams about it frequently, dinners with the Seeds with Pratt at Jacob's side. In that shimmery in-between place, Jacob's not ashamed of him, of this, of himself, and things are easy, good.

Pratt wants to latch onto Jacob's words and crack them open, ask as many questions as he can before Jacob clams up again. He assumes it's John, can't quite picture genial Joseph Seed flip-flopping romantically like that. Does a girl in town have John's attentions? John's got this slick, big city air about him that lingers about, curling around the shoulders of people who've never even met him, like Pratt, and it's hard to picture some backwater, small town nobody catching the eye of someone like him. Maybe it's someone in Missoula or Bozeman, both big cities (for Montana, at least) John's said to spend a lot of his time in when he's actually in state.

Wants to. Doesn't. His nerves are still too frayed for that, even if he is doing legal speeds again. He needs to get a grip on this situation and smooth it over so they can make a good first impression to Hudson.

Maybe if Jacob sees how easy it can be, things will progress a little faster? Maybe he'll get his dinner with the Seeds after all, even if its date is nebulous, floating on the horizon. An as of yet unreachable star he's still stretching for, smiling dopily at its light as in he goes.

“John, I'm assuming?” he asks for verbal confirmation, for a set path for Jacob to follow. How far down he goes it is up to Jacob, but Pratt's willing to take whatever he can get.

The snort Jack gives is loose and easy enough for Pratt's muscles to unlock just a little bit more.

“Yeah, no way in hell it's Joe. John's just—like Prince Charming after Cinderella's fled the ball. Making everyone gather 'round him to try the glass slipper on, oh'ing and ah'ing over every foot crammed bloodless inside it.” Jacob shrugs his shoulders. “Later figures out the slipper _doesn't_ fit and he's gotta yank the damn thing off fast as possible. Before the circulation's even returned he's put it on someone else. One day maybe he'll find someone to comfortably wear it. Hopefully.”

“I think we're all out here looking for someone to, uh, fit our glass slippers.” Except Pratt wasn't, not until Jacob. Didn't even know he had one collecting dust in the closet until he decided maybe, possibly, he wanted more with Jacob than he'd originally thought.

Originally, Pratt just wanted his dick but that spiraled quickly out of control. Now he wants all of him—his time, his laughter, his aimless wandering of Pratt's house in the middle of a sleepless night. His brothers sat around a dining table, Hudson and Naomi and his _mother_ all in accompaniment.

“That right?” With his left hand, Jacob taps his lips with his index and middle fingers. “You out there shovin' every right or left foot in the County into it?”

“No. No, just, uh—” He flexes his knuckles around the wheel again, listens to one of them pop in the dim. Coming up on the left is their turn to Hudson's tucked away little street. Pratt flips on his turn signal even though there's no one else around for miles. “Just yours.”

Another snort, followed by a breathless sort of laugh. Disbelieving, but humored. Jacob rolls his shoulders, pops something aimlessly as Pratt had. “I've got big feet, Stace, and shit balance for heels.”

“Have you ever worn heels properly before?” The mental image of Jacob Seed even fucking taller threatens to blow Pratt's mind. He allows it to redirect his thoughts, to steer them away from the heaviness of their former cryptic topic as Pratt eases the car to the left. Jacob already clocks in at 6'3”, he'd be gigantic in a pair of platforms. He's got nice legs, though. Muscled calves and thighs, soft red hair, not too sparse but not too thick.

Fuck, he's got a nice ass, too.

“Focus on the road before you crash the car near your friend's house, Christ, Peaches.” Jacob's left hand is on the wheel beneath his own. Once their very minor drift to the right has been corrected, Jacob lets his hand drop though it doesn't go far. That giant hand finds itself on the top of Pratt's unconsciously parting thighs, heavy and warm.

“Have you—”

“Christ. I was in the Army, what do you think?”

“That is _not_ a suitable answer. I want details—shoe type, heel height, location, what else you were wearing. Chop, chop.”

Pratt's blood sings as Jacob squeezes his thigh. They're less than three minutes from Hudson's house, he really needs to stop this—but he's so easily derailed. From his anger, his nerves, the quiet sentiment he was hinting at with Jacob's glass slipper analogy.

“Fort Benning, sometime in the 90's. Lost a bet. Cliche red pumps, platform—some stupid amount of inches. My regular fatigues, Peaches, no lingerie. Could barely cross the barracks without snapping both my ankles. You got some kinda drag kink I should know about?” Another squeeze to his thigh.

In the distance Pratt can see the mailbox he'd helped Naomi pick out a handful of months ago, a bright pink flamingo with its leg curled up. Hudson hates it but loves that Naomi cackles like a hyena every time she sees it.

They bounce lightly down Hudson's gravel driveway, Jacob's hand doing very little to keep him from shifting in his seat. Slowly a house comes into view, camouflaged with its dark paneling in the settling darkness. There aren't any streetlights down this stretch of Holland Valley, the only light guiding Pratt besides his headlights the porchlight shining weakly beside a bright teal door, and the floodlight on the side of the house bathing the stretch of battered gravel and grass where Pratt always parks his car. The ring of trees around Hudson's house is so tall and flush with leafs that moonlight just barely seeps into the clearing.

Hudson's house is bigger than his, three levels like his own but significantly wider. Left to her by her paternal grandfather, the one living relative that stuck by Joey when everyone else abandoned her when she first came out. It's huge, several acres under its belt, and while Hudson has no desire to do anything with it she's effortlessly turned down each and every offer made to buy up some of her lot. Dark wood and darker paneling, accented with her obnoxious-but-somehow-cute teal front door and matching window accents—shutters, flower baskets that hook to the sill.

Pratt's favorite part is the sprawling front porch, with its teal and white deck furniture and its outdoor ceiling fans. He's gotten drunk on that thing many a time before Louis Hudson even passed, slept on the couch that used to sit near the front door more times than he can count. It's gone now, Hudson unable to bear the sight of it after he'd past, but Pratt has the blurry fond memories in its absence.

Jacob whistles long and low. “Nice house.”

“Mhm. Willed to her, Grandpa Lou. Told everyone in his will to fuck themselves for turning their back on her when she came out—made sure the lawyer read his words verbatim, too. Left her everything he had. Her folks'd come to their senses before he'd died, but he never forgave them for what they did to her.” Pratt lets the words float around the cab, waits for them to sink into Jacob's skin a little more. “Jacob—I'm not...I'm not looking to shove your foot in a glass slipper. The analogy is – is cute, but I don't need you to fit any mold, or – or – or preconceived standard. You can bring your own shoes, just as long as you come.”

The engine makes a quiet tinkling sound as he shuts the car off, pulls the keys out of the ignition and presses them in his fist to his kneecap just above Jacob's still-sitting hand.

After a long moment of pregnant silence, Pratt releases his breath slowly. “C'mon.”

Jacob climbs out of the Xterra a moment after Pratt. Doesn't say anything, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and waits for Pratt to round the front bumper before he falls into step beside him.

They're on the porch when Pratt realizes he forgot the party favors in the backseat.

“Shit. I'll be right back, forgot—”

“You are _not_ leaving me on this porch by myself. I'll go get whatever it is, Peaches.”

“Two bags, can't miss 'em,” Pratt says as he watches Jacob go. The weak light beside the door makes a valiant effort to illuminate the way, though it barely even extends a foot away from the bottom step of the porch. It's so dark Jacob's just a smudge in the open, no color to him at all until he reaches the floodlight bathing Pratt's car in yellow-white.

Suddenly light bathes the porch, blinding in its intensity. Pratt's got a moment to turn around before there's hands on his forearms yanking him inside while a voice hisses, “Are you fucking serious?”

“Joey—what're you—wait a second—” He struggles to regain his balance, standing in the still open doorway with Joey Hudson's clawed fingers digging into his skin. She's dressed in more than a novelty t-shirt this time, one of her dressier tops in a burnt orange and a pair of jeans with only a handful of artful rips. Feet bare, toes painted lime green like the nails still in the meat of his arm. Hair in a high bun on the back of her head, some hair left out to frame her face. Like she'd been prepared to make a decent impression on Jacob, the way he'd primped a little for her.

Her toes curl in the rug in front of the open door as she continues seething. “He _ditched_ you? Were you just on the phone with him? God, what a fucking douchebag. Can't believe he'd flake out on you—”

“Joey! Joey, it's okay, he's—”

“Flaky douchebag, at your service,” Jacob chirps happily, grocery bags held together in his right hand while the left shimmies in a half-assed wave. He smiles at Hudson as the blood begins to leave her face, her skin nearly as white as his teeth. “Evenin', Deputy Hudson.”

In silence, they stare at each other while Pratt holds his breath, the world around them holding its own in anticipation.

God, so much for a first fucking impression. First the gas station, and now this?

“Into the kitchen. Now.” Her voice has lost most of the defensive anger and the color's returning to her face, but what once was red in rage is now blotchy in embarrassment.

“This is a good start?” Pratt says to Jacob as Hudson continues to pull. He extends a hand out, wriggling his fingers at Jacob, and laughs near hysterically as Jacob rolls his eyes but crosses the threshold into Hudson's home. Closes the door with his foot and then takes Pratt's hand. Doesn't drop it once he's been pulled bodily forward, closer into Pratt's space.

Naomi pops her head out from within the kitchen right as Hudson's yanking them all inside. She has to take several steps back to keep from bodily colliding with Hudson's leading charge, and her textured socks squeak on the linoleum as she moves. The beads at the ends of her red and black box braids click against one another as she looks quickly from her girlfriend to the two people she's got in tow.

“Baby, why're you yelling—oh. Hey, Stace. And uh, h-hey, Jacob?” Naomi croaks. Swallows heavily, offers a wobbly smile.

“Hey, Naomi,” Pratt says cheerfully, skidding to a stop as Hudson practically flings him away from her. His left hip collides with the corner of the kitchen island, and Jacob takes his right to the inner thigh before he can stop himself.

“Pleasure,” Jacob answers.

“Okay, okay—you're late. Explain.” Hudson's eyes are on Jacob, but her words are for Pratt.

“He—”

“S'my fault. Work ran over. He didn't wanna head over without me, so he waited. Hope it wasn't too much trouble,” Jacob says. Laying on the charm, shoulders loose and casual, accent more noticeable than usual, though Pratt can feel Jacob's hand begin to clam up within his own. He doesn't want it to go, but when Jacob drops their hands he doesn't chase after the lost contact. At least Jacob doesn't move away from him—if anything, he moves closer, but that might just be in effort to put more distance between himself and Hudson's suspicious, squinted kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Joey,” Pratt says quietly, “we're here. _We're_. Let's not—let's not do this.”

“Yeah, Jo,” Naomi interjects, voice just as low. She weaves between the three of them and gingerly takes the bags out of Jacob's hand. “Would you like a beer, Jacob? Stace?”

“Please,” said with a nod from both Pratt and Jacob.

Naomi's intervention seems to be enough to disarm Hudson's anger, for the time being at least. She nods to Pratt, squints one last time at Jacob, and then turns pointedly on her heel, heading back to the stove. She mumbles something to Naomi that Pratt can't make out, but Naomi hisses at her to be quiet before she closes the fridge with her hip and makes to open two bottled beers.

With a relieved sigh, Pratt grips Jacob by the elbow and leads him to the barstools tucked beneath the lip of the kitchen island. They sit close together, Jacob's left knee tucked against Pratt's thigh as the right one bounces out of sight. Pratt can feel the anxious vibrations of it where their bodies are connected, but otherwise Jacob's face is placid, a little friendlier than neutral.

“I hope enchiladas are okay?” Naomi asks as she sets a beer down before each of them. She smiles warmly, her good mood recovered along with her equilibrium. Being an EMT has allowed her to roll with the punches, to loosen her shoulders and unclench her jaw and go along with the flow. A little awkwardness in her kitchen is nothing compared to responding to a collision, or some drunk tourist who'd thought it'd be funny to challenge a badger only to have their ass handed to them by mother nature herself. “Didn't know if you had any food allergies, but they're Stace's favorite, so—”

“I don't, and I'll eat practically anything, even most of _Stace's_ questionable dietary choices. Though I'm sure your enchiladas will be worlds better than his taste in cereals.” His lips pull back in a smirk as Pratt squawks. Takes a swig of his beer, lips still curled upward.

Pratt watches Jacob's throat work in his best friend's kitchen, warmth filling his chest as Jacob's usual prickly-but-playful personality blooms right before his very eyes, even with the tension still hanging in the room alongside the smells of salsa verde. Bites his lip hard, pulling it into his mouth as Jacob's Adam's apple bobs with each swallow.

“Ugh, God. Am I gonna have to spray you?” Hudson hisses, a wooden spoon extended in Pratt's direction. She shakes it menacingly at him, but any fear it might've provoked is lost when a sauteed onion sloughs down its face and slaps wetly on the tile.

“Baby,” Naomi chastises, at the same time Pratt rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth.

“Promise I'll keep my hands to myself,” Jacob tells Hudson. They hold each other's gazes for a long moment, assessing one another, both with their chest poked out. From beside Hudson, Naomi looks at Pratt and shrugs her shoulders, her expression screaming, _What can you do, huh?_

“See to it that you do,” Hudson mumbles, turning back around.

Naomi claps her hands together, the sound startling after their stare-off. “So! Jacob! Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself? Get some of those icebreakers out of the way early.”

“Seeing as we know next to nothing about you,” the peanut gallery chimes in.

Pratt closes his eyes and groans. He thinks of Jacob's general nerves on their failed date, of how Jacob put effort into his appearance for this dinner to make a good impression. Hudson's a good friend, his best, but her defensive, angry cat impression with its hissing and spitting on tiptoes whenever Jacob so much as opens his mouth, is not helpful. This isn't how he intended for this to go, and he desperately hopes that the train they're on for the evening doesn't derail before dinner's even served.

Thankfully Jacob doesn't look too fazed. His right leg is still jumping a little, a steady bounce of the toe of his boots against the chair's lowest rung, but otherwise his shoulders are still loose, face still open.

“What do you want to know?” Jacob asks, words addressed clearly to Naomi.

“Just—anything. What you're comfortable with.” Her voice rises over Hudson's distant mumbling, drowning it out before it can reach the island.

Pratt's chair protests as he stands up slowly. He squeezes Jacob's elbow as he goes, trying to let him know it's okay, to stay seated, that he'll be right back. And he will be right back, once he speaks with Hudson alone.

He grabs her elbow as he had Jacob's, but instead of squeezing he tugs once and holds. “I need to talk to you.”

“Stace, I'm busy—”

“The food's in the oven, you're just pushing leftover onions and garlic around a pan. I need to talk to you—alone. Anything that needs to be finished Noms can get, right, Naomi?” There's an affirmative chirp from behind him before Naomi and Jacob continue to talk quietly. Pratt's still holding the warm bend of Hudson's elbow. Where his thumb presses against delicate flesh, he can feel her blood rushing through her veins—not thundering, but elevated. “Please.”

With utmost care, Hudson sets her utensil down. She sighs, gestures away from herself and awaits Pratt's next move.

Pratt bypasses the living room entirely, taking Hudson back out onto the front porch. As his favorite place in the house, he's hoping it'll keep him calm and level, hoping the relative darkness will make Hudson feel safe, have her retracting her claws.

“What are you doing? Do you want him to run away?”

“He's just—smarmy, and—”

“Well, yeah, but he's only acting out because _you_ are acting out!”

“It's _Jacob Seed—_ ”

“Yes it is! And I like him, and you _know this_ , and I – I want this to go good. Go _right_. I don't want him terrified that any other couple-y actions we have together are gonna be so God damn tense he's gonna have to lob a pathway to walk down with his his sharp ass tongue. _Please_ give him a chance. For me, Jo.”

Hudson runs her hands over her face, stepping anxiously from foot to foot. “I don't— _fine._ Fine, Stace. I won't—but he's gotta play nice, too.”

“He's trying,” Pratt says. “He's a shit in the way I'm a shit. In the way _you're_ a shit. He's always gonna be mouthy, but you'll get along s'long as you put down the sword.”

“We are not the same kind of shit and you know it, Staci Pratt.”

“Pff, cut from the same cloth, Josephina.” She mumbles a few more choice words into her hands, the words safely guarded by her fingers, tucked away from Pratt's ears. When she finishes her private tirade she drops her arms limply to her side and nods at him. “Thank you, Jo. I mean it—I like him. I want this to go well. You don't—you don't have to get on with him like I do Naomi, but I hope you'll at least try.”

He opens the front door before she can put her foot back in her mouth. The light flooding out is less jarring than before, but it still takes a second for their eyes to adjust to the brightness.

Once they do, it takes them another moment for it to sink in that they're hearing laughter coming from the kitchen, Naomi's familiar high chuckle and Jacob's lower rumble. Not that he'd expected anything horrible to happen in their absence, but laughing is—nice. Hopeful.

God, the butterflies in his stomach are all aflutter, knocking around inside him like little lovesick assholes.

Pratt leads the way, Hudson at his back. They stop just before the threshold and just watch as Naomi opens the oven door and Jacob reaches inside with mitted hands, the pair still laughing quietly, easily, as Jacob retrieves a long glass dish.

He can't help but think that Jacob looks right, looks _natural_ standing in Hudson's kitchen, a place that means so much to Pratt. Laughing with one of Pratt's closest friends, an easy smile on his face. Body turned towards hers, their beers side by side on the kitchen counter. Pratt _wants this_ , wants Jacob loose and comfortable with himself and those around him. Wants those people to know that Pratt's Jacob's, and that Jacob's hopefully Pratt's. It doesn't matter if Jacob doesn't scream their relationship from the rooftops like Pratt wants to, they can be private so long as he gives Pratt this.

“Control yourself,” Hudson whispers in his ear, but she sounds almost fond as she prods him in the shoulder.

As he steps into the kitchen, away from Hudson, he gives her a helpless shrug of his shoulders as he crosses the room, pulled into Jacob's orbit by the laugh lines around his eyes.

“Everything good?” Jacob asks when his laughter subsides. The smile doesn't leave his face, though, and _God_ those laugh lines—Pratt doesn't bother to check himself before he's leaning up and pressing his lips first against them, and then the parted corner of Jacob's mouth when the first kiss knocks the breath out of him. Jacob's eyes are wide as they look quickly over Pratt's shoulder, body tense until he realizes the world hasn't ended.

No one's coming after them with pitchforks, no one's lobbing slurs. The world's still steadily turning on its axis. The worst that happens is that Hudson makes a retching noise, and even then she's quickly and playfully reprimanded with a gentle slap on the wrist from Naomi.

“Everything good?” Pratt echoes, licking his lips. He lets Jacob study him like he's a puzzle he hasn't quite worked out, the way Jacob always seems to look at him when they do something together and the world doesn't fall down around their ears.

“Yeah. Yeah, s'good,” Jacob breathes, “s'good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, rising from the grave with this fic like mushu in mulan *u* i am literally 100% sorry it took so long to update this, but thank you for bearing with me. i have a few more chapters planned out for this, hopefully i can get those out regularly now that my muse is back on its wobbly lil feet.


	13. Chapter 13

It feels like they're finally moving forward. After so many false starts and stops, after having to apply the breaks at a moment's notice and being yolked back by belts that cut into their throats—it feels like they're finally, _finally_ progressing.

Staci sits at Jacob's side at Hudson's dinner table and has to make a concentrated effort not to vibrate out of his skin. The butterflies in his stomach have migrated and colonized his entire abdominal cavity. He can feel them beating around his heart, in his lungs, creep creep creeping up his throat. When he laughs at something Jacob says, their beating wings tickling in his airway, he wonders if one'll escape the home its made of his body and flutter around the room. Wonders if the others will see it, too, and if they'll know it exists because of Jacob.

Blue like his eyes or red like his hair, shimmering in the soft light warmly bathing them from above.

After the initial hurtle, dinner goes surprisingly well. Jacob and Hudson continue to snipe at each other, but the ribbing is softened, playful, paintball rounds instead of live ammunition. Still with the ability to bruise, to fucking sting, but no longer looking to eviscerate, or to cite Montana's Stand Your Ground law. Hudson's made her message loud and clear, Jacob's indicated that he's heard it, that he respects it, and now that they're both on the same page their edges have blunted and don't knocked together quite as much. Both calling for a truce, resting assured that the other has Pratt's best interests at heart.

Naomi is a huge help in maintaining the peace. It's surprising to Pratt how easily she and Jacob get along, but he's immensely grateful that she's here with her warm eyes and quick wit and referee whistle, ready to use it and call foul on anyone and everyone in the room, even Hudson.

At the car after, leaving with more bags of things than they'd arrived with—Hudson insisting that they take some leftovers off their hands, her fridge is way too full as it is—Pratt keeps his hands to himself long enough to securely sit their doggie bags in the backseat before he's pressing Jacob against the passenger's side door. Slow steady steps into Jacob's space, inevitable, unstoppable.

Jacob doesn't even look around warily before he's kissing back. Just lets Pratt crowd in close, stand between his slowly parting legs. Hums when Pratt cups his jaw and turns his head just a bit for a better angle.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Pratt whispers when they part, still close enough to Jacob that his lower lip bumps Jacob's upper when he speaks. He feels drunk with how happy he is, buoyed by the rightness, the inevitability of Them.

“You're welcome,” Jacob answers, voice just as quiet. He squeezes his own thanks into Pratt's hips where his huge hands sit comfortably, fingertips pressing a soft, secret message Pratt can't quite make out beyond how _warm_ and quietly happy it is. Somehow Jacob's eyes shine even brighter than the floodlight bathing them hugely in white, that familiar blue clear and crisp and warm. Tropical waters Pratt wants to dive into. Hold his breath and sink to the bottom, let the water take him. He thinks he'd be safe down there, enveloped in Jacob and this Thing.

“Y'wanna...take me home and thank me properly, huh?” Jacob teases. “Don't wanna scar your friends so close to the finish line.”

Pratt's thoughts snag on the word _home_ in Jacob's mouth. He shoves his hand into his pocket to grab his keys so forcefully he halfway wonders if he'll punch a hole clean through the fabric.

-

Four weeks and some change after The Dinner, Pratt decides to push the envelope again. He's given Jacob enough time to digest everything that's happened so far—the failed movie date and the successful dinner date with the Girls—and thinks that now, maybe, they can start making little forays into yet unexplored territory.

“We should do something. Not today 'cause I gotta work in a few hours, but uh...this weekend?” The program Pratt's been half-watching has just ended, a show he doesn't recognize taking its place. Midday television is the worst and usually he doesn't even bother with it, instead opting to play videogames or do housework until he has to get ready for a night shift, but he's finally decided to do it: rip the bandaid off for Jacob. Push him forward, push _them_ forward.

They've coasted since the Dinner with Hudson and Naomi. Jacob's taken quickly to them both, enjoying the ready acceptance and understanding they both have to offer. They've had dinner with them three more times since then—twice at Hudson's, once at Pratt's—and Jacob attended last week's Wednesday Movie Night. Let Pratt drape himself unceremoniously all over him without a care in the world. Would've gone to this week's, too, but he'd had to work late.

Pratt had texted him throughout the entire movie, sent him externally saved Snapchats of himself in Hudson's lap, of the empty cushion Jacob had occupied last time with _Wish u were here 2 rub my feet :-(_ bannered across the photo.

A video of Hudson throwing a handful of popcorn at him, “Stop pouting, you miserable little demon. Stop blowing up his phone, stop interrupting the movie, and stop—fucking recording me!” The last bit jumbled as Hudson launches herself at him, effectively ending the video as he cackles.

And while it's everything, being with Jacob, acting like an actual couple—it's still not enough. Now that he's had a taste of it, Pratt's desperate for more.

Anxious or not, Pratt's gonna continue nudging them in that direction. Make Jacob his boyfriend for real, for _keeps_ , instead of under wraps.

“Together?” Jacob prompts, intentionally difficult.

“Yes, together,” Pratt hisses. Softens his tone immediately after. He wants this to go right, wants Jacob to want to do things with him. In order to do that, he's gotta tuck his lips over his incisors and keep himself even but earnest. “It doesn't—we don't—I'm not asking for a Pride Parade. Not looking for you to fuck me in the middle of the street in Fall's End. Just...little things, yeah?”

Jacob makes a considering noise beside him and dutifully lifts his arms out of the way so Pratt can shift from his seat on the couch and into Jacob's lap. There's an instructional manual in Jacob's left hand, cover tucked back behind his pinkie, and though he's squinting in concentration (and in poor eyesight, the asshole, “tiny fonts” Pratt's entire _ass_ ) at the text Pratt knows he's got at least three fourths of Jacob's attention.

Especially after he innocently wriggles in Jacob's lap before settling on his thigh.

He just wants to get comfortable, that's all. No ulterior motives.

“We could go to museums in the bigger cities. The Museum of the Rockies has dinosaur fossils and other cool shit. Or...we could camp? I hear Glacier Park is nice this time of year, we could do that. Have you ever been?” Pratt proposes. Despite the calmness of his voice, he's still nervous about broaching this topic—but it's gotta be done. He has to take this headwind and ride it, use Jacob's good mood and positive experiences to hopefully garner them more.

“Can't say I have,” Jacob replies easily. It takes a little bit of shifting for Jacob to turn to the next page, this time tucking the opposite side of the booklet behind his pinkie, but he manages without shifting Pratt off of him. Even leans back a little, allowing Pratt's body to follow his own. To lean heavily into Jacob's chest, to breathe and ghost his touch along Jacob's throat.

“It could be fun. You, me...Naomi and Hudson if you wanted more...more plausible, uh...deniability.” He sighs quietly, picking at the loose collar of Jacob's well loved gray t-shirt. Grease and oil stains splotchy and permanent, warping the color and texture in places.

He doesn't _want_ to have to have a scapegoat along with them—Hudson and Naomi are the _worst_ scapegoats, anyway, practically everyone in Hope County already knows they're as good as married. What good are they going to do to explain away the situation? Can't sweep the gay under the rug with an even gayer broom and dust pan—but he'll do it. Drag them along on their excursions if the Girls are amendable to it, if it makes Jacob more comfortable.

It can be a stepping stone, a tiny sacrifice. Pratt's pride in the here and now for his happiness in the future.

Fucking training wheels, until Jacob gets the hang of This.

Another considering sound. Jacob sets the manual down at his side and bodily rearranges Pratt in his lap, so he's straddling both thighs instead of sitting solely on the one. It's still thrilling, even nearly three months in, how _strong_ Jacob is. Manhandling Pratt like he's simultaneously nothing and something Precious.

“Do you want them to go with us?” Jacob asks evenly, one hand on Pratt's hip, stabilizing, anchoring, keeping Pratt from wriggling away, while the other's free to roam. He drags the pads of his finger along Pratt's temple, brushing against the free strands of hair framing Pratt's face, the rest of it haphazardly thrown up in a loose bun on the back of his head. He'd put it up to cook and hadn't thought to take it back down.

It's Pratt's turn to hum his consideration, but it's warbled in his throat, an entirely different key than Jacob's low, thoughtful rumble. He's nervous, and being sat like this in Jacob's lap offers him nowhere to hide, nowhere to duck his face when his bravery momentarily reaches its limit and he's got to allot himself time to cool down before he can use it again.

“Stace?” He's been using that nickname a lot since that first night at Hudson's house. As usual with matters involving Jacob, Pratt's stupid enamored by it. It sounds right in his mouth, like it does with Hudson and Naomi and his mother, and it's certainly a better nickname to use in the light of day than _Peaches._

Easier to explain in public, too, when they eventually graduate to that.

“No. Yes. Not—not all the time?” he answers, looking down at his hands where they've moved to fist themselves in Jacob's t-shirt. There's a bleach stain an inch or so above his head, yellow-white in the center and fading out to a red-gray along its borders. The cotton in the middle is thinner than the rest, eaten away by chemicals. Pulled taut, Pratt can see his Jacob's belly button through the thin material. “I think we could have fun camping together, the four of us. But I wanna do things with _you_. Just you. Don't really matter what, but I'm starting to get a little cabin fever just...hanging here. So if _you_ need them to go, too, that's okay. I'm not—not asking for a Pride—”

“Parade. Yeah, you said that already,” Jacob teases, but there's no bite in it. Even though he can't see those eyes, he can feel them on his face quietly assessing him.

“I just wanna be with you,” Pratt whispers, the words familiar as they roll off his tongue. Beneath his questing fingertips, Jacob's stomach quivers. He feels Jacob's grip on his hip tighten, pressure firm and so warm. More little messages pressed into his skin that Pratt can only guess at—Jacob's nerves and affection, the surety of this and the doubt of everything else. “Don't matter if...no one knows. For – for now.”

“For now, huh?”

“I'd tell everyone if you'd let me.” He would. Drive around the County in his cruiser with his loudspeaker on, walkie securely in his fist. Fucking ducktape his thumb onto the broadcasting button. Maybe get Nick Rye to do him a solid, write it in the fucking clouds. Have his declaration looking like God himself decreed the rightness of their relationship.

“I like to hike,” Jacob says slowly. He licks his lips and carefully studies Pratt's face. “And Snowshoe Lake is just warm enough this time of year not to freeze your balls clean off. We could—”

“Yeah. Yeah, anything, Jacob.”

Delicately, Jacob tucks the hair framing Pratt's face behind his ear.

“Don't promise things y'don't mean, Stace.”

“Who says I don't mean it? Ain't no one around to contest the validity of my statement, Mr. Seed.” He means it jokingly, but it comes out a little more bitter than intended. Speaking around the sour taste in his mouth, words dragging through it and becoming tainted themselves.

Jacob snorts. “You're a brat, Staci Pratt.”

“A brat you're taking hiking, though. Can't get out of it under penalty of death. No pressure or nothin'.” Pratt shifts in Jacob's lap, purposefully dragging his jean-clad crotch over Jacob's. Smiling into Jacob's quiet almost purr. “It'll be fun. I'll pack lunch. Bring sunscreen so you don't fry these ears.”

Jacob swats his fingers away as they curl around the outer shell of his ears. He pulls Pratt's hands down by the wrists and places a kiss in the center of each palm.

“It'll be fun,” Pratt says again.

It'll be the start of more. Of forward.

-

The weather's beautiful. The birds are singing. They've passed copious amounts of Whitetails grazing about happily. Took photos of Ozhigwan Falls, where they parked Pratt's Xterra and began their trek upward.

He'd managed to get a few of them together, after puppy dog eyeing Jacob until he cracked, caved in like a house of cards. Pratt sets his favorite—Jacob tucked to his side, half-kissing half-grinning against his temple as Pratt beams and beams—as his home screen background after a quietly mumbled assurance that no one'll see it but him.

Jacob hadn't look convinced, but he hadn't fought it, either. Even smiled at the photos on his own phone once Pratt had finished forwarding them to him and the Girls.

So it just goes to show that _something_ would fuck up their trip, because that's just how Staci Pratt's life goes.

“That's gonna swell nice and pretty,” Jacob says lowly. Exhales hard and helps move Pratt towards a nearby log, left by previous lake goers. It takes a while for them to shamble on over, Pratt's right foot curled up and away from the ground. Hopping like a dumbass on his left.

“God _fucking_ dammit,” Pratt whines as he's being seated. He throws their bag of supplies to his side, probably upending all of his carefully packed snack foods. Angrily he mumbles beneath his breath about tracking down the careless assholes who'd dug a small firepit in the grasses leading up to the waterside, and then proceeded to cover it in grass and leaves.

Less than fifty feet away from the water's edge. God damn perfect.

Without a word, Jacob kneels before him and slowly works his right hiking boot off, rumbling quiet assurances as Pratt hisses and spits his threats. It's still so picturesque out, the sun shining brightly in Jacob's red hair, the lake huge and clear blue at his back.

“I'm going to kill them,” Pratt announces cheerfully, “and I can get away with it, too. I'm a cop. And there's a lot of land out here to hide a body.”

“Doesn't look broken. Think y'just rolled it, but it might be a little tender for a few days,” Jacob soothes, steamrolling over Pratt's murder schemes in his calm droll.

“I don't _want_ a rolled ankle! I – I just—God _fucking dammit_!” He feels like a child, flinging his arms and stomping his good leg. For a moment he even considers reaching behind the log and ripping up handfuls of grass to throw, to properly showcase his anguish and rage. Unfazed by the tantrum, Jacob continues to observe the damage. His fingers brush gently above the knob of Pratt's ankle, lightly palpating, and he shushes him quietly when Pratt hisses again. “This isn't fair. It's not.”

“It was an accident, Peaches,” Jacob says.

“Doesn't mean it's fair. I get you outta the house and into the open and _this_ happens?”

“Could be an omen.”

Pratt squints his eyes and stares hard at Jacob, who's suddenly studying his ankle again like he missed something on the first pass. Even though it hurts, Pratt shakes off Jacob's hand where it'd braceleted loosely around his ankle. “Don't say shit like that.”

“Staci—”

“And don't _Staci_ me either. S'not fuckin' cute. A fuckin' _omen_ he says—Jesus Christ.” He'd been in such a good mood too, practically levitated up the rocky terrain from the Falls to the Lake on his happiness alone and now—now he's having weird flashbacks to the Movie and it's just—

It's not fucking fair.

All of his doubts, his festering uncertainties have risen to the surface, front and center, like a body bobbing in the water. Bloated and mangled, flesh eaten away by his insecurities like bottom feeders while it'd been tucked out of sight along the lake's floor. Guess the rope he'd knotted at its ankle and attached to a cinderblock before chucking it into the lake wasn't secured enough.

“If you think it's an omen why—why even come, Jacob? Why even offer to do anything more than fuck me?” Unable to suppress the urge, his fingers already curling into gnarled, livid claws, Pratt shoves his hands behind him and fists them in the earth until they twinge.

“Staci—”

There's a quiet ripping sound, and Pratt's got two nice handfuls of green and damp, moist brown. He squeezes around them, clumps of dirt breaking off and sprinkling through his fingers. “No. Be honest, Jacob. If not with yourself then at least with me. No one can hear you out here, anyway.”

“ _Staci_ —are you gonna shut up and let me get a word in edgewise?”

“If those words aren't 'sorry' and 'you're right' and ' _I'm sorry_ ', then no, I'm not.”

“You can be such a bitch sometimes, Pratt.” Jacob sits down heavily at Pratt's feet, making a face when he's seated. Pratt vindictively hopes he's sat on a fucking rock and that it's stabbing him in the asshole. “I didn't _mean_ anything by it. You're—you're not the only one who can just flap at the gums, y'know.”

Pratt throws one handful of grass at Jacob. It lamely hits him in the shoulder, dirt tinkling down the front of his t-shirt, over his shoulder like the fundamental opposite of a pinch of salt. Displeased with the impact, with the general impotency of his _life_ , Pratt drops the second handful on the ground and rubs his hands clean on his cargo pants.

“But when _I_ do it, it's endearing and cute. When you do it, it's closeted, hurtful bullshit.” Staci drops his voice a few octaves, trying to imitate Jacob. “I'm Jacob Seed and my boyfriend's not really my boyfriend unless all the windows are shut and the deadbolt's turned.”

Jacob rubs at his face. He looks around the Whitetails like they'll give him answers, give him strength, but when his eyes meet Pratt's again he looks as aimless as before. Tired, like they'd hiked for hours and hours and gotten nowhere, and not half of one _maybe_. “What do you want me to say, huh?”

Pratt holds up his left hand and starts ticking off fingers, starting with his thumb. “I'm sorry. That was hurtful. I'm a big, dumb, mean asshole. My boyfriend's an angel, and _actually_ my boyfriend and not some - some secret fucktoy I keep shoved in the sock drawer.”

Jacob makes another face, lips pursed and brow furrowed. There's a blade of grass sticking out of his breast pocket, shivering minutely in the breeze.

“I'm not ashamed of you, though you probably think I am, and I'm sorry for making you have this conversation _again_ but somehow fucking worse.” He swallows hard and lifts up his right hand, doing his best to ignore how his voice is starting to quiver. No longer even trying to keep the imitation up as he sheds the playfulness like a scab to reveal his wounded pride.

In the center of the lake, air bubbles ripple up from the depths.

“I plan on telling people that I'm in a relationship with you in the near future—and that includes like...fucking strangers and coworkers and _family_ , and not just the bare minimum that I can get away with. This isn't one sided, and this means as much as I claim it does when it's dark and no one else can see me. You can stop worrying that you're gonna be left holding the bag with – with all of these memories with nothing to show for it but a broken heart. I – I love you, and all of the grief we've put each other through will eventually bear fruit, and—”

Noticing that his hands have started to tremble, Pratt curls them into fists before he can reach the tenth digit and shoves them between his legs. It feels like his words have hollowed out his throat, left his airway ragged and bloody. It hurts to swallow, and his eyes have started to burn foolishly.

He doesn't look at Jacob directly, just sees him watching him out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he watches the smooth, tranquil surface of Snowshoe Lake.

Maybe it _is_ an omen. Maybe all of the little strides they've made together don't add up to much of anything in the long run, their little victories lost to time because there's no one besides them aware they even exist.

Maybe wanting this so badly it physically causes him pain doesn't mean he gets to keep it. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. You can love someone so completely but you can't make them love you back.

“Staci. Y'gonna look at me?” Jacob asks. He's got one hand hovering over Pratt's knee, waiting for permission before he touches.

“No,” Pratt whispers. His words are still rocky and awkward and Jacob's are—flat. Even. Smooth like the surface of the lake, whatever it was lurking just beneath the surface tucked safely back beneath the water.

“You want me to say I love you?”

“I want you to _mean_ I love you. I want you to – to mean anything and stick by it. Want you to mean it, 'cause _I_ mean it. _I_ feel it. I love you, Jacob. It's been almost three months and I—I'm stupidly in love with you, and sometimes I can't read you well enough to know whether you feel it too or if you're just fucking me until something more promising comes along. If that's why you won't let me tell anyone, because you...you don't want this long term like I do. Not worth the mess, not worth the time when I'm just some pitstop.”

In his peripheral, Jacob climbs to his feet long enough to park himself on the log beside Pratt. It shifts under their combined weight, but with both of Jacob's booted feet and one of Pratt's counteracting the motion, it eventually stills again with minimal rolling.

“This isn't easy for me, Pratt. Do you think I like seeing you torn up like this?” With a sigh, Jacob rubs at his face. The rasp of his hand against his beard is so fucking loud, louder than the falls roaring in the distance, the birds singing in the mountains around them. “Do you think I like being this hot-cold, huh? 'Cause I don't.”

“Then _fix it_ , Jacob, and stop fucking yo-yo'ing me.”

“It's not that easy! It's not, Staci. I'm—Christ, I'm almost fifty. What business do I have coming out of the closet now?”

“Uh...happiness?” Pratt shrieks. “Why even _start_ with me, if – if—ugh, why even continue and let me—when you— _why?_ Why have this same God damn argument with me over and over and not just let it end?” He hates the way he sounds. Whiny, wounded, wanting. Wants to rip up more grass, fucking all of it, render the land bald and barren and broken, but doesn't want to risk showing his damning, shaking hands.

He wishes there were a car window to climb out of. God, wishes they were having that stupid fight in his driveway instead of whatever _this_ is coming to a head. It feels somehow more than the previous fight, more visceral and deep cutting, their yo-yo string finally snapping.

“Because I want you. Because you drive me fucking nuts, all I can think about is you. Because the fact that I'm scared shitless and flying blind means fucking nothing to me when it comes to you.” In a flurry of movement, Jacob's straddling the log and fully facing Pratt. “I don't know what I'm doing, you're so fucking young and—”

Enraged, Pratt quickly rises to his feet, needing distance between Jacob's earnest eyes and his pointed words. The impact on his bad ankle makes him grunt, but it's better than hearing all of Jacob's contradictory messages. He walks towards the water, waddling to keep the pressure light on his bad ankle. If he steps heavily with his good leg and then barely presses on the bad one before he's bringing the other back around, he barely notices the stinging discomfort or the rocks biting into the soles of his bare foot.

“Don't give me that shit, Jacob.”

“Where are you going?”

“Away,” Pratt mumbles. He's actually got no idea where he's heading, but _away_ is a close enough approximation. He won't get far hobbling like this, though.

“Staci,” Jacob calls. Unhindered, Jacob easily crosses the dismal distance Pratt had managed to put between them. He grabs Pratt by the elbow roughly, though he's tender as he turns him around, mindful of his ankle. Supporting some of Pratt's weight where they're connected. “Staci.”

“Don't _Staci_ me.”

“I love you,” Jacob says.

Pratt scoffs in his face, shoulders up defensively. Head turned away and lip raised in a snarl. “Don't _bullshit_ me, either.”

“I'm not. I love you, and I'm sorry I—I've got a shit way of showing it.”

“Then fix it, Jacob,” Pratt says again weakly. “You're sorry? Prove it to me. _Show_ me you love me, that you're not – not ashamed of me. Of this, of who you are. Show me that this is worth more than what a few dumbass locals may or may not think of you after. I know how scary this is, Jacob—I'm a cop, for Christ's sake. Y'think it's easy being openly queer in the police force? It's not. But I am who I am, and being who I am, loving openly who I want—it's worth some ugly hissed words from beer-bellied trailer trash.”

The birds have stopped singing, or maybe he can't hear them over the ringing in his ears. Jacob shifts forward, gravel and dirt crunching beneath the soles of his boots, and even that is muffled and far away.

“Show me, or let me go. I'm not asking for—”

“A pride parade, yeah. I know.”

“I'm asking for you. S'the only thing I've been asking for this entire time. You'll figure out how to give it to me, or...or you won't. It's that simple.”

Now that Pratt's tired himself out, now that he's still and not actively fighting, Jacob steps in close and cups his jaw. Softly drags his thumb over his lower lip, rubs his touch into the sensitive skin.

“This simplicity have a timetable?” Jacob asks, trying for levity.

It hits only somewhat, the dagger tip of his joke barely embedded in the walls Pratt's slowly putting up. Preparing to either build a home to keep them, or a fence to keep Jacob out.

“Soon. I don't expect you to call your brothers here and now,” Pratt says. He can feel the way Jacob's hand twitches on his face, and he appreciates how Jacob tries to make the motion seem natural instead of a knee jerk reaction. “Besides, there's no reception up here by the lake. You'd have to go back down to the Falls for that, and I don't wanna leave just yet.”

-

Jacob helps him out of his hiking clothes. Lays them out flat on the log as Pratt hands him each article, until he's left in nothing but a pair of swim trunks. Jacob strips next, quickly making work of his own clothing in the same fashion.

After a quick application of sun screen, Pratt offers his hand. Jacob takes it, and together they walk into the water. It's cold but bearable once they acclimatize to it. It feels good on his ankle, may even help with some of the swelling.

In the center of the lake where Pratt had seen the bubbles, he slides onto his back and stares up at the sky, cloudless and bright blue like a familiar set of eyes.

“S'beautiful out here, at least,” Pratt mumbles.

Not looking anywhere but at Pratt, Jacob hums his agreement.

-

“Why does it take a handful of seconds to get wet but fucking eons to get dry? Christ, it's cold.”

“I cut the heat on, you big baby. Let the cab warm up while I run inside and get you something for your ankle.”

Pratt grumbles from the passenger's seat of his own car, but otherwise complies. Nothing else for him to do anyway, his ankle's bruised up nice and pretty like Jacob had predicted, purple and black in the expanse of flesh stretching from his ankle to the top of his foot. It hurts to flex his toes, but he keeps doing it anyway.

Curling them up, hissing. Extending them, hissing.

He's gotta call Whitehorse when they get back. See if he can take a sick day tomorrow, or at least ask for desk duty. Probably gonna need it for at least a week, if not more.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pratt sees a familiar flash of red. Jacob's hair is still damp but drying faster than Pratt's, curling at the edges like Pratt loves and Jacob hates. He watches Jacob smooth a hand through it after he sets an armful of supplies on the checkout counter—an elastic bandage, a new bottle of ibuprofen, what looks like a freezable ice pack.

After a second, Jacob sticks up a finger, flashes a smile at the cashier, and fishes out his phone. Shortly after, Pratt's phone starts to trill.

“I can see you,” Pratt greets, warmed by Jacob's ready chuckling.

“Do you want anything else while I'm in here? Candy, one of those God forsaken sugar water abominations? Something artificial and full of sugar?”

“You said candy already.”

“I meant the fake cake shit that you eat and think I don't see.”

“You are literally no fun. I'm too cold for a slushie but, uh...I will take some Reese's cups if you're offering.”

Jacob laughs in his ear again, and it warms him more than the heat beginning to circulate around the cab. “Excuse me a second,” Jacob says to the cashier with an apologetic smile, “my uh...my...Christ, my boyfriend wants candy.”

The line disconnects.

Jacob looks at him from within the store and flashes him a wobbly smile. As he heads off to retrieve the sweets, the cashier leans across the counter and gazes as best she can out the front door.

Jaw hanging, Pratt waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the worst part about this kind of romance drama is the yo-yo'ing, but i think jacob's gonna grab this shit by the horns and fuckin' _ride_ now. which hopefully means i'm winding to a close in the next handful of chapters, though we all know how shit i am at feeling this shit out.


	14. Chapter 14

He’s still staring by the time Jacob comes back out, heart pounding in his chest. The _ding ding ding_ of the ajar door shakes him out of it, has his jaw clamping shut with a click loud enough to rival the alarm as he lurches in his seat to fully face Jacob. He watches Jacob as he settles into the driver’s seat, blue eyes turned low, focused intently on the white plastic bag in his lap. Ears and cheeks awash in warmth, practically radiating off of him in waves.

This is a big step and Pratt recognizes it, the balls it took to just go for it, to rip off the bandaid and casually work their relationship into Jacob’s everyday life - he’s allowed a little anxiety and embarrassment, but _God_ , the tips of his ears are _so pink_. Pratt wonders if they’re hot to the touch like they look, wonders if he’ll feel embarrassment tempered with elation thundering just beneath the skin.

Pratt endeavours to find out. Curls his fingers around the velvety shell of Jacob’s ear and grins as Jacob shudders but leans into his touch, rumbling like a giant cat. His eyes flutter shut as Pratt rubs soothing stripes into the side of his face with his thumb.

God, he can barely make out the rasp of the pad of his thumb over Jacob’s beard through his own heart hammering in his chest.

“Your boyfriend, huh?” Pratt asks around his grin. His mouth hurts he’s smiling so hard, feels like his face is gonna split in two. Gouge his happiness into cheeks, carve a Glasgow smile with the jagged rock candy sweetness of Jacob’s admission. A different kind of facials scarring than Jacob’s, born of happiness and love instead of misery and desperation.

God. His _boyfriend._ Someone other than Hudson and Naomi know that he’s Jacob Seed’s boyfriend.

“Anyone I know?” The words squeak out from between his grin-clamped teeth, voice much higher than it usually is. It feels like he’s sucked helium out of a balloon, voice squeaky and head swimming and his chest bright and full. Practically ready to float out of his seat on the wings of his joy alone, hand braceleted around Jacob’s to drag him along.

Pratt shifts forward and drops his hand from the side of Jacob’s face to the ball of his chin. Gently eases Jacob’s face towards his own so Jacob can properly see how happy this has made him. Needs him to _see_ , to look Pratt in the face and fully grasp just what this means. To snuff out any lingering embarrassment, smothered beneath Pratt’s affections. “He sounds like a lucky man, Jacob Seed.”

The plastic bag in Jacob’s lap crinkles as Jacob’s hand idly twitches. He keeps grabbing and releasing the handles, twisting them in his palms. Distorting the decal on its face until all Pratt can read is _Thank You Thank You Thank You_ in bold, blocky red.

It’s pretty fitting, he’d say.

“Dunno how lucky he is to’ve snagged his line on me,” Jacob mumbles, “but I know I fuckin’ am.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pratt can see the cashier idly picking at the sunglasses display closest to the gas station’s entrance. Picks up a pair, looks it over, places it back on the rack crookedly. Picks up another, trying to look busy. When she notices that Pratt’s found her out, she jumps a little, a cheap red pair of sunglasses flying from her hands to smack against the store’s front glass door. Even then she doesn’t actively move away, just hunches her shoulders a little and tries again to be more stealthy.

If at all possible, Pratt grins harder for the attention. Preens under it, rolls his shoulders as some of the tension of keeping this a secret for so long begins to ease up. “She’s watching us, y’know. Curious to see who nabbed you off the market ‘cause you’re so hot.”

Jacob’s blush steadily takes over his entire face. Nearly as red as his beard in some places, blotchy under the pockmarked scars riddling his skin. “Staci, just take your candy -”

He’s never seen Jacob flush so badly, not even in the throes of sex when Pratt’s worked him to the point of sweating buckets, panting like he’d run a marathon after fucking the breaks off of Pratt. It’d be cute if Pratt didn’t know Jacob was still uncomfortable, itching beneath his skin.

“I wanna kiss you right now. So bad. Y’don’t...y’don’t know what that meant to me just now.”  He’s not stupid enough to think coming out is going to be a wholly pleasant experience for Jacob, but he wants it to be as smooth as possible. Throwing in a little PDA is _not_ smooth. It’s choppy as fuck, rough waters out at sea for someone as inexperienced in this as Jacob, but Pratt’s fingers are twitching with it anyway.

Jacob’s eyes meet his own, blue and wide. They search his face quickly, gauging the sincerity, drop down to his lips and then fly back up. Jacob’s entire face loosens when their gazes meet again, still bright red but now less tense and anxious. He’s even smiling a little, lopsided as it is, lilting under the weight of his nerves.

He wants Jacob to make steady progress, so maybe they should go back home. Definitely, maybe. Not overdo it right out of the gate and exhaust him before they’ve really begun. Telling a cashier is one thing, but making out in the parking lot as she practically openly watches? That’s another thing entirely.

“How’s about you start the car and take us home before I lose control of myself?” Pratt taps his index finger against Jacob’s cheek before beginning to pull his hand away, figuring he’s going to have to jumpstart their departure, shock Jacob out of his head. He doesn’t get very far, doesn’t even get his hand off Jacob’s face, before Jacob’s own hand comes up to hold him there. Clamped tightly around Pratt’s wrist, Jacob’s nostrils flaring, thumb pressing hard against the erratically thumping pulse in the center of his wrist.

He swallows so forcefully Pratt can feel it where he’s still holding his fucking chin.

“Do it,” Jacob breathes. Words wobbly, coltish. Still so God damn uncomfortable but pulling himself up by his bootstraps, hoo fuckin’ rah.  “Let ‘er watch.”

Pratt helplessly follows the wet pink tip of Jacob’s tongue as it runs across his lips. The warm early evening sun makes the saliva on them shine obscenely, practically calls out to Pratt like a beacon, a sweet siren’s song.

“Jacob, you don’t - mph.”

Words swallowed up by Jacob lunging across the divider to kiss Pratt himself. The impact’s a little more aggressive than Pratt was expecting, has him reeling back from the force, but Jacob easily follows him, not allowing their connection to break. His lips smart from the initial press, already beginning to swell, but he moans around the sting. Curls his fingers into Jacob’s beard and dutifully opens his mouth when Jacob begins to deepen the kiss.

He tries to put every ounce of his love and thanks into his kiss, to tuck it into Jacob’s very mouth so he’ll know.

Jacob’s hands have migrated from the plastic bag in his lap and to Pratt’s body, one cradling his face while the other cups the side of his neck. He brushes his thumb against Pratt’s trembling Adam’s Apple and hums into the kiss as goosebumps erupt in its wake. He encourages Pratt a little closer, rubs his tongue against Pratt’s and presses his fingers hard into his throat when Pratt sucks on it.

A kiss is one thing, hell, making out is another, but at the rate they’re going one of them is gonna start shedding layers and give their audience a free show.

Pratt’s the one to break away first. Jacob follows after him with a disappointed huff, chases his lips and the warm wetness of his mouth. He looks a little disoriented when he finally opens his eyes, like he’s not quite sure why they’re not still kissing. Why this isn’t progressing like it should, with Pratt shimmying over the center console and into Jacob’s lap where he belongs.

As tempting as bringing that mental picture to fruition might be, they need to get home. Still need to wrap Pratt’s ankle, to call the Sheriff and ask for either the day off or light duty.

Then…then they can pick up where they left off. Use their bodies to make their fight up at the Lake a distant memory, to soothe the throbbing ache in Pratt’s ankle with the pleasure already curling, warm and wanting, in his gut.

“ _Home,_ baby. Can’t - can’t have you coming out via an indecent exposure charge,” Pratt teases.

“Be an easy way to let everyone know,” Jacob counters. He licks his lips again, chasing the taste of Pratt on them, and it takes everything in Pratt’s body not to throw caution and fucking _decency_ to the wind and launch himself back at Jacob, indecent exposure charge be damned.

“Your brothers deserve more than that. Your friends - you. Plus I dunno how me getting arrested is gonna help my career in, y’know, law enforcement.” Pratt watches as Jacob snorts, then begins to right himself. His hands are shaking with pent up adrenaline and lust as he reaches out to take the plastic bag from Jacob’s lap.

As Jacob buckles back up and moves to start the car, Pratt breaks into the package of Reese’s Cups to occupy his hands. The chocolate’s already begun melting in its cup, making a mess of Pratt’s fingers as he extracts the first piece and peels off the wrapper, letting it fall carelessly back into the plastic bag.

He bites into half of it, murmuring contentedly at the bright taste of peanut butter and the smoothness of chocolate. Not what he wants - Jacob’s mouth on his again, sweet and warm - but still good.

Pratt freezes when an idea strikes, too good to pass up even if his lizard brain is conspiring somewhere in the back of his mind. Then he reaches back across the divider and presses the other half of his candy to Jacob’s lips.

Jacob snorts but opens his mouth, chocolate smearing from Pratt’s fingers along the sweep of his lower lip. As he chews he cuts his eyes over at Pratt and shakes his head.

“Got a little something on your - hm,” Pratt mumbles. Without another word, he leans forward to follow the trail his fingers had taken with his mouth. Sucks the smeared chocolate off of Jacob’s lower lip, knowing good and damn well he’s going against his own advice and tempting fate. Tempting both of their patience, listening to his dick and not common sense.

Jacob tastes too good like this to pass up, though.

“You’re such a shit,” Jacob says, lips barely parted from Pratt’s, catch-dragging as he speaks. Fingers flexing on the gear shifter.

“That’s a really rude way to speak to your boyfriend, Jacob Seed,” Pratt admonishes. “All I wanted to do was be _nice_ and share my candy with you. Clean you up a little when you’d gotten chocolate on your face. Y’know, good caring boyfriend things.”

“That right?” Jacob snorts again. “Gonna need you to teach me some, I guess. A little new to this.”

-

The true dilemma is in deciding how to tell Jacob’s family.

They deserve to hear the news straight from the horse’s mouth, not from the Hope County gossip mill. Once the news gets out, it’s going to spread around Hope like wildfire, eating across the peaks of the Whitetails and the lopping hills of the Henbane. Flash clear across the flat stretches of farmland in the Valley, until everyone knows about the big red queer elephant in the room.

If Jacob tells his employees before his brothers, it’s likely to get out to them before Jacob can decide on his attack strategy. Many of them are members of Joseph’s congregation, and things are likely to slip out after Wednesday and Sunday services when the parishioners are idly chewing the fat after a sermon.

Jacob wants a few more test runs before he goes for the big guns. Get his feet wet, bolster his confidence first.

Pratt doesn’t want to micromanage this, so he holds back his suggestions on who to tell and when to tell them. Just lets Jacob mumble about it as they’re making dinner or getting ready for bed, chewing at it like a particularly difficult piece of grizzle. He’d already practically ultimatumed him at the Lake, he doesn’t need to be breathing down Jacob’s neck as he slowly takes his first openly queer steps.

When Pratt himself had come out he’d been in high school, and the news had circulated around town quickly. He’d had his moment of anxiety-inducing fame for a handful of weeks before everything died down, the spotlight shifted off a bisexual teenage boy and onto the methamphetamine epidemic sweeping the County. He hadn’t had to do much but survive the sideways glances and murmured words after the initial revelation, and once the dust had settled and the town had moved on all he’d had to do then was survive, period. Live it, his life and his truth.

He knows he still gets some judgment lobbed his way, it’s inevitable in a small rural area like this. By and large the uniform protects him from anyone getting it through their dumbass head to pick on the faggot. Even when he’s out of it and off duty, most are smart enough to turn away from him and mumble their slurs instead of picking a fight.

Jacob’s lived his entire life in the closet, though. Fucking men in secret, in the shadows, ignoring the sparks still flying after the semen’s cooled and the sun’s begun to rise. Probably slung his own fair share of pointed slurs in order to fit in, especially while in the military. It must be second nature now to wear his sexuality sparingly, to don it for a moment’s use and remove it quickly, tuck it back into its darkened drawer, but in order for this to work - for _happiness_ to take root and flourish - he’s gonna need to learn to wear it as armor.

He doesn’t need to shout it like Pratt wants to, even now. Especially now. Saying it casually will do.

Jacob’s hand on Pratt’s lower back as Jacob gestures him forward, introducing him to an employee or an acquaintance. God, his brothers.

_This is my boyfriend, Pratt._

-

The first people to find out besides the gas station clerk are Grace Armstrong and Jess Black, a week after the Lake Incident. As one of two openly gay couples in Hope, it’s a safe move on Jacob’s part - but progress is progress. Gotta cut your teeth somewhere after all, and Grace and Jess are both quiet, private people. They know what it’s like to value both your identity and your privacy, and they’ll readily accept Jacob without batting an eyelash between them.

Jacob tells him in the kitchen when Pratt’s packing himself lunch for his night shift. Leaning against the counter casually, taking long pulls from the beer he’d nabbed from the fridge. Dust in his hair from a remodel he’d been working on in the Valley.

“I told Grace. And, uh. And Jess,” Jacob says quietly.

“Uh huh? Told ‘em what?” Pratt asks, tucking ham slices onto his sandwich bread. He’s got a butter knife in his right hand, mayonnaise and mustard smeared messily up the side of it making his hand greasy. There are little greasy fingerprints along the ziploc bags he’d pulled out for the chips and dessert he’s yet to divvy out. Probably on the mandarian orange he’d plucked from the fridge, but he’s got to peel the skin off that first, anyway.

“You serious?” Jacob deadpans. Beer can halfway to his mouth.

Pratt’s fingers flex around the knife. He wracks his brain for something Jacob’d have to tell anyone, let alone Grace and Jess, when it hits him like a sack of bricks. He gapes stupidly, wondering how he could’ve forgotten something like _that_. Pacified by just one admission, Christ. He goes to speak and pantomime excitedly with his hands and drops the stupid knife. It clatters on the counter, disrupts the toppings on his sandwich, but Pratt doesn’t care. Already pivoting around to face Jacob fully, let him catch the full glory of the rising sun that is Pratt’s grinning elation.

“Sorry! Holy shit, Jacob. That’s - that’s great.”

Jacob lowers his beer and readily accepts Pratt into his space as he steps forward. Curls a loose strand of Pratt’s hair behind his ear, lets his arounds loop loosely around Pratt’s waist. Smiles down at him, more reserved than Pratt’s own but still just as sincere.

“Ran into them getting gas -”

“God, why does everything in this stupid county revolve around gas stations?”

Jacob levels a stare at him for interrupting. “Anyway. Hadn’t seen Grace since last time I’d run into her trekking in the Mountains. She’d asked what was new and uh...told her you were.”

Pratt shifts his weight around from foot to foot, practically fucking dancing. Vibrating in his boots. He clutches at the bottom of Jacob’s soiled shirt and grins, not even caring if he’s making it even dirtier with the gunk on his hands. He’s gotta wash it, anyway. Probably will in Pratt’s house while he’s gone. Might even stay the night, wait up for Pratt in the morning like he usually does when Pratt works night shift. A permanent fixture in Pratt’s house.  “Did she shit a brick?”

He likes Grace a lot. Tall, proud, regal almost. After Pratt had finished his preliminary courses on the way to becoming a Deputy, he’d gone to Grace’s family’s firing range to better hone his firearm skills. He’ll never be as good as her, nor as devoted to marksmanship, but he’d learned a lot from her and her father. Considers them friends.

Jess Black he knows less about. Grace’s other half is quieter, a year older than Pratt and four younger than Grace. She’s a bit intense, best bowhunter in the County, but she looks at Grace like she hung the fucking moon and Grace returns those lovesick puppy eyes, so Pratt figures she’s good people.

They’ve both known about Pratt’s sexuality for years, but he wonders how they took Jacob’s admission. Big, presumably straight Jacob Seed queer and in a relationship with _Pratt_ of all people. And on top of it all, strolling out of the closet to them in the middle of the pumps at a gas station, fucking rural mountain gay style.

The curl to Jacob’s smirk has Pratt narrowing his eyes, suspicion making him hum warily. Nothing good comes from that smirk - or, well. Nothing good can come of it in _this_ context. He doesn’t have enough time to partake in the good that smirk can herald. “She looked at me for a few long moments and then told me I’d sure hit the ground running.”

Pratt squawks indignantly. “ _Hit the ground running -_ what the fuck does that mean!”

He knows he has a bit of a...reputation amongst his friends, but damn.

Jacob kisses his forehead. If it weren’t so cute the patronization would have Pratt gnashing his teeth, hissing curses. As it is, he just huffs, letting Jacob have his moment.

“You _are_ a bit of a handful,” Jacob says casually.

“This is shit. My friends are all mean. My boyfriend’s mean. God.” He grins even as he whines. Rubs the grease on his hands into Jacob’s flannel for good measure. When Jacob looks down at his still-shifting hands, Pratt just bats his eyelashes innocently. Draws Jacob’s attention away from the splotchy-slick white-yellow, and back onto Pratt himself. “I’m glad it went well, though.”

“Never expected that particular reveal to go anything but well, but it’s...nice. To have that support. To know you’ve got that validation you’re looking for.” The unspoken _I just want to make you happy, I’m trying not to fuck it up too badly_ is practically written on Jacob’s face, in the soft and somehow earnest way he takes in Pratt’s expression.

“Oh, I don’t care about whether or not anyone approves of us. Just want people to know you’re mine. To be able to be happy I’m yours out in the open.” It’s too late in the evening to do more than simply press a kiss against Jacob’s lips. Much as he’d like to do nothing but show his appreciation more thoroughly, he’s got to finish packing his lunch and head out in the next few minutes if he wants to be on time.

He pecks Jacob on the lips once more for good measure and turns around to finish making his lunch. His sandwich is a little more fucked up than he thought, having been toppled over by the butter knife when Pratt’d dropped it.

Pratt spooks when Jacob embraces him from behind, tucking his chin on Pratt’s shoulder. It’s so stupidly domestic that Pratt begins to melt immediately, leaning back into Jacob’s warmth.

“I’ll bring it to the Station later. Go on ‘nd go, Stace,” Jacob says quietly. The words are practically rumbled right into Pratt’s ear, warm and damp and smelling lightly of beer and faded cinnamon gum. “Wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“I’ve still got enough time to finish it and not be late. You don’t have to make the drive out for _this_ -”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m offering and you should take me up on it. Grab your coffee and go be a few minutes early for a change.”

“ _For a change_ \- God _damn_ you’re taking this transparent thing to a new level. Catty much?”

Jacob swats him on the ass and practically laughs him out of his own house.

-

Being early for a change _is_ nice, not that Pratt’s often late. He’s one of four deputies on the night shift and the first one at the Station, which means he gets first crack at assignment choice after Whitehorse debriefs them. While he waits for the others to arrive, he snags Hudson before she leaves. Grabs her hand and pulls her into the tiny Station kitchen and excitedly tells her the news.

“That’s great, Stace,” she tells him, resituating her backpack on her shoulder. “Glad to see you idiots are moving forward.”

“Is _everyone_ gonna be a dick to me today? Damn,” Pratt huffs. “Grace implied I’d be a handful.”

Hudson snorts. Reaches behind her head to pull her ponytail tauter, leveling him a look as she does so. “You are a handful, Staci.”

“This is shit,” Pratt mumbles.

“What’s shit?” Whitehorse’s voice startles him a little, cutting off the mini tirade Pratt can feel itching at the back of his throat. Instead Pratt shuts his mouth and turns to look at the Sheriff as he approaches. He looks tired, probably been here all day. Even back to full census Whitehorse always works himself to the bone.

“My friends are mean. Same old.” There’s the old, familiar urge to fling out his arms and tell the nearest person that he’s in love with Jacob Seed, but Jacob hasn’t told Whitehorse yet. Hasn’t given Pratt the okay to do so, either, though Pratt hasn’t exactly _asked_. Maybe it’d be easiest for Pratt to tell a select few while Jacob’s still planning out how to tell his brothers. Make it so the pressure isn't just on Jacob being some kind of door to door gay acceptance salesman.

His fingers itch to grab his cellphone and text Jacob for permission. He _is_ early after all, he could get away with openly texting. There’s not really anything written anywhere that he _not_ be allowed to text, so long as he does his job first and foremost, but it’s a bit of a  different story with the Sheriff literally right in front of him.

“Must’ve done something to earn it,” Whitehorse teases, “knowin’ you.”

“Et tu, Earl? Everyone’s a critic,” Pratt says.

He’s too busy huffing as Whitehorse laughs at him to notice the front door of the Station opening, but Hudson sees it clear as day. She straightens from where she’d been sitting on a nearby desk, gripping the handle of her backpack in her fist. Eyes practically bugging out of her head..

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

“What?” Pratt asks. He gets halfway to turning around, fully expecting some mangled hunter to stagger into the room barely holding their guts in, groaning about a bear attack around the blood thick and sticky in their mouth, when the image in his head is dispelled with little more than a quiet _Deputy Pratt,_ called out from the doorway. Goosebumps break out along his forearms as he finishes orienting himself to the Station’s entrance, already knowing what he’ll see: Jacob standing in the little lobby in his dirty, grease-stained flannel. Dust still in his hair, somehow still looking like the most attractive man Pratt’s ever seen. Even with his scars.

Grocery bag knotted in his hand with Pratt’s lunch inside.

Pratt seizes up a little, unsure how to address him. Jacob calls him _Deputy Pratt_ playfully all the time, but in the Station itself it’s an incredibly formal title. In lieu of a greeting that could cause him to misstep, to move things out of sync with Jacob’s carefully laid plans, Pratt calls out a quiet hello. Asks what he can do for Jacob. Tries not to let his voice warble too badly around the longing in his throat, desperate to make itself known.

The only other people in the Station are Hudson, Whitehorse, and Nancy. Hudson already knows, but again: Pratt’s not sure of the protocol here. He trusts Whitehorse with his life, and while Nancy _is_ a bit of a gossip he doesn’t think she’d let this one out if he asked. She’s important to him, nearly honorary tia status.

No deputies Pratt barely knows and doesn’t care to know any better. No detained civilians on drunk and disorderly charges, brought in to dry out in the drunk tank.

Just Pratt’s family, not of blood but of choice.

All eyes are on Jacob, even Nancy’s, who’d been packing up her desk to go home for the day. She’s got her iPad in her hands halfway in its protective travel case, her arms still as she focuses on their unlikely visitor. Like she can tell that something’s about to go down by just sensing the electricity crackling between Jacob and Pratt.

Pratt watches him falter, swallowing hard and flexing his fist around the plastic handles. He can feel Jacob’s nerves from where he stands half a room away, doubt making his jaw clench and his shoulders ridged. He wants to go and drag Jacob outside so he can calm him away from prying eyes, pet his hair and assure him he doesn’t have to do everything in one day, almost as much as he wants Jacob to just say fuck it and own their relationship.

In the end, Pratt just has to let Jacob settle and go about things his way. Pratt’s acquiescence to Jacob’s lead seems to steel his resolve, unlike back in that stupid restaurant before the Worst movie date of Pratt’s life. Jacob’s boots pad quietly across the linoleum, long legs quickly and easily eating up the space between them. Between Jacob’s fears and Jacob’s love, leaving it snapping at his heels as he outpaces it.

“Your lunch, Stace. Finished it,” Jacob says, holding out the aforementioned bag. In the air the twisted handles begin to uncoil, circling lazily round and round at level with Pratt’s chest.

A laugh hiccups out of Pratt as he watches it go. Makes him think of Jacob bringing him dinner in the Station’s parking lot what feels like eons ago, just another stepping stone on the way to _this_. Another night shift, another delivered lunch.

“You didn’t to bring it right away, Jacob.” _You didn’t have to do this today, Jacob._ But he’s thankful for it, so fucking grateful. Licking his lips as he grins, feeling like the cat that’s got the canary. Peaches the cougar like his stupid God damn nickname. It feels like he might start purring at any moment, rumbling his thanks. Rubbing himself up against Jacob like the big cats do to mark their territory.

He’s pulled from his drifting thoughts by a different kind of rumble. Whitehorse at his side letting loose a _hmmm_ from his throat as recognition flares behind his eyes. Nancy catches on right after Whitehorse, iPad forgotten as she drifts towards their group to get a better view.

“Yeah, I know,” Jacob answers.

It’s been a week and seven people know they’re together now. Not a lot in the scheme of things, there are billions of people on the planet, but Hope County is small and seven is a good starting number. A good foundation on the way to telling Jacob’s family and his employees.

Fuck, Pratt can tell his mom soon. Might even do that later tonight when he’s got a moment. Gush about Jacob to her, forward her one of the pictures from the falls. Or, God, maybe all of them. Maybe some of the PG rated SnapChats they’ve sent back and forth. Show how cute and snarky Jacob is hoping they can gloss over the whole Age Thing.

“So _this_ is your mystery man,” Whitehorse says. “The one who keeps marking your neck up to hell.”

Whitehorse stands a little taller, a little straighter, and calmly appraises Jacob from behind his thick glasses. Sizing him up like a father would the prospective suitor of one of his children. Pratt squirms under the warmth that comparison births, vision mysteriously blurred.

The blush the scrutiny invokes in Jacob reaches his _ears_ again, but Jacob mirrors Whitehorse’s body language. His back straight and his chin held high, like a soldier awaiting inspection.

Plastic bag still idly twisting in his grip, Pratt never having taken it from him.

“Ah, yes, sir, that’d, uh...be me.” Stumbling over his words but not mumbling them. If this was any other situation, Pratt’d be howling at his tongue-tied boyfriend, usually so on the ball and fucking _mouthy_ , but this isn’t the time. They’ve got to sniff around each other for a few more heartbeats before Whitehorse drops his verdict, and while Pratt doesn’t expect anything but acceptance, he still finds himself crossing his fingers against his thighs for good luck.

Whitehorse’s mustache twitches, his lips beginning to curl into a smile. Pops the tension that had built up in the room with a chuckle.

“Try for beneath the collar, will you, Jacob? Gotta keep him presentable somehow,” Whitehorse says warmly. Matter of factly, that’s that - the sky is blue, grass is green, hickies should be private and hidden especially on public figures and, oh, Jacob Seed and Staci Pratt are an item.

Jacob seems floored by the statement. Not by the words themselves, but by the simple, effortless acceptance of their relationship as fact. As _okay_. That Whitehorse’s only point of contention is playful and that he be more mindful of fucking hickies.

“Yes, sir,” Jacob answers. His throat clicks as he swallows.

At Pratt’s back, Nancy reaches forward and pinches his hip. Long fire engine red nails like daggers even through his uniform.

“Good for _you,_  kid,” she giggles. If there was any awkwardness left behind the leering in her tone waves it away.

Pratt can’t see her behind him, but he can see the blush on Jacob’s face flaring brighter. Must be quite the look on her face to get that kind of reaction out of Jacob. Every time he thinks he’s seen how red Jacob’s pale skin can get, something else happens to prove him wrong.

Another hiccup of laughter crackles out of him, light and bubbly, fuzzy like champagne. He’s bent over holding his stomach before he knows it, laughing and laughing until his eyes begin to water.

“Ah, Christ. Y’done broke him,” Hudson mumbles.

“No. No, no, I’m - I’m fine. Just...need a minute,” Pratt cackles. Jacob’s flush is funny but not _that_ funny, but he guesses the laughter exploding out of him is just his body’s way of expressing its relief. It’s nice to just be able to _laugh_ about it. Just out in the open enjoying this, enjoying Them. Not having to put up a front or anything because everyone in the room already knows.  “S...so red. And your _ears_ , baby.”

“Y’good, Peaches?” Jacob deadpans. Eyes squinted, challenging. Jacob determined to make up for the comment about his adorably red dumbo ears.

“ _Peaches?_ ” Nancy crows.

“Oh, God, no. Jacob. Why’d you -”

“Tit for tat, Stace. Gone keep on laughing at me?” He’s smiling good naturedly even as he says it. Holds out Pratt’s bagged lunch and doesn’t even pull his hand away when Pratt entirely ignores its handles and instead slips his hand into Jacob’s. Jacob allows himself to be reeled in, easily taking the last few steps necessary to have Jacob pressed warmly at his side.

“Thank you, Jacob,” he whispers, squeezing Jacob’s hand. Close enough to Jacob’s ear to smell the faint traces of his beard conditioner, muted slightly by sweat and hard work.

Jacob just hums. Holds Pratt’s gaze. Holds his fucking hand.

“Y’mind walking me out to my car?” The words startle them apart a little, their hands not falling away but Jacob taking a shuffling step to the side to both put a little space between them and better face Whitehorse. Pratt fights the urge to tuck Jacob behind his body - as if that would do anything, anyway. “Got a few things I need to lug to my truck before the debriefing, could use a hand, Jacob.”

Pratt feels Jacob’s hand go loose in his before it falls away. He’s worried it might be too much too fast, Whitehorse playing a paternal card so soon after the cat’s been let out of the bag, but Pratt’d be lying if he didn’t own up to the fact that the fatherly affection has his own face flooding with heat. Watching Whitehorse size up his boyfriend, size up Jacob fucking Seed, and ask him to “help him” so Whitehorse can get a better feel for him in this context.

As the boyfriend of one of the Sheriff’s deputies and not just a chronic speeder, or someone ending fights.

“Lead the way, Sheriff,” Jacob says quietly. He squeezes Pratt’s elbow as he goes by, following Whitehorse into his office.

“Y’can call me Earl, son. Or at least Whitehorse.” Spoken right before both men slip out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jacob, determinedly nutting TF up and going after this shit aaaaye ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> my computer crashed and i lost 2k of this and then had to start from scratch but Uh i actually prefer the way this one turned out better so? thank you acer for being...a bitch.


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